


Beware Greeks Bearing Gifts

by The_Clever_Magpie (Metal_mako_dragon)



Category: Casino Royale (2006)
Genre: Alternate circumstances, Blood and Gore, Chess foreplay, Double Crossing, Dubious Consent, James likes to pursue things he can't have, Le Chiffre is a sadist, Lots of dancing around the issue, M/M, Oral Sex, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Torture, but he has his moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_mako_dragon/pseuds/The_Clever_Magpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because even Le Chiffre had a sense of self preservation over and above his own ego. Shame that he couldn't say the same of James Bond.</p><p>Set during the events of Casino Royale, but with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sinon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit that this is very much an overdue story, considering I saw this film when it came out eight years ago. However, as I appear to be on a bit of a Mads Mikkelsen spree at the moment, I thought I might as well start putting it up. What can I say, the man's an inspiration in all the best ways.

He was sure not many people did, but he remembered his fifth birthday with innate clarity. The long table at the cafe had been dingy and scratched, and the smell of coffee almost overwhelming. Faces of friends and family had been keen and expectant when he opened the single gifts from his parents. His father’s revealed a large dictionary and thesaurus, his mother’s a small but exquisitely crafted chess set. It was then that he’d known what his father, the writer, wanted of him and what his mother, the trapped genius, recognised in his potential. On that day his childish mind had decided who to love and who to resent.

He saw her in himself, not much but enough to remind him of her when he smiled. Same full lips and deep cupids bow, same well formed, high cheekbones, same IQ. Perhaps a shadow of her superior lilt in the way he tipped his head. His mother had been a beautiful, insightful woman right up to the moment she hanged herself, after all.

He could also at least attribute his poker face to her, perhaps, along with the fine education she had insisted upon him having. He hadn’t flinched when he gutted his father for his betrayal, for driving his mother to leave them both permanently. Had even taken the forethought to bind him upon a plastic sheet in the lavish garage. No one ever saw him again. As far as Le Chiffre was concerned Jean Duran had died the day his sixteen year old feet ran into the garden to see his mother’s pale blue heels sticking out from the heavy foliage of the oak tree behind his bedroom.

These days, looking in the mirror, sometimes he felt that all he could see were his bilious left eye and the milky pallor of his skin, remnants of his father’s weak lineage. It made him wish, not for the first time, that he could be rid of it. Of course it was useful for some things, such as disquieting those he wished to disquiet. Not many could stand his stare for long. As he was finding now.

“A _name_ ,” he said as his gaze alone tagged on, _if you make me repeat myself one more time I’ll take your eyes first_.

“You didn’t hire me for a name, just the p-pictures,” the man stammered, said eyes flicking up towards the end of the alleyway; Le Chiffre would not deign to remind the man that his pictures had been worthless, nothing within them to tell him what he needed.

“Then perhaps I did not make myself clear,” Le Chiffre said, unable to lose the demure patter he kept for guests even as his anger slipped; he had been at a gathering only half an hour ago, champagne and salmon tartar, and couldn’t fully shake off the persona, “I am asking you for the name now. Do you think I am stupid enough to ask you for a thing you do not have?”

“No! _No_ ,” the man panicked, his greasy blonde hair slapping against his forehead distastefully as he juddered his head, “only the name I got wasn’t a real name.”

“Then give me what you have,” Le Chiffre sighed, rubbing at the irritated skin by his left eye.

“Sifar, he called himself Sifar,” the man spat out, fumbling with his white cotton shirt and wiping sweat from his brow, “and he spoke with an accent.”

He did not ask because he was past asking. He did not want to test himself lest his temper still the man’s lips before he had all that he wanted. Instead he continued to stare until it was unmistakable that he expected the man to keep talking.

“H-he sounded German,” the man scurried out, “or Scandinavian. Maybe eastern block at a push.”

“So you’re telling me he could be from anywhere in upper Europe,” Le Chiffre said, smiling dryly to try and cover his telling twitch, “or beyond.”

“That’s as much as I could get,” the man, obviously used to dealing information, had obviously picked up on the folly of greedily taking the high pay Le Chiffre had offered for this job, “he met with Ghamlen. There was a suitcase, money I think, it could have been...”

It had been enough to listen to the man’s incompetence before, but now hearing him scrabble for anything that might save him was pitiful. Le Chiffre pulled the silenced pistol from the holster under his arm and aimed, realising only too late that the alley was a touch narrower than he had first thought. The man lunged at him with eyes wild and hot breath caught in a keen. Hands grabbed his own, forcing the pistol up and the soft pip of the bullet ricocheting off of brick. Le Chiffre braced himself for the impact of the wall against his back and struggled fitfully, cursing his lack of focus as his heart began hammering in his chest. The tight grip swung his arms to the left, then the right, then left again and down onto a large metal bin.

The impact against his wrist hit the bone, screaming sharp agony, enough to loosen his fingers and let the gun jump down onto the ground with a clatter. He could feel the panic rising in his system; enough to react rashly. His knee jerked up forcefully into the man’s groin once, twice, and his contact crumpled to his knees involuntarily, his grip on Le Chiffre’s hands loosening enough to break free. Another knee caught him in the face and the man was left supine on the filthy ground while Le Chiffre pulled the concealed switchblade from his waistband and unfolded it with a flick of his wrist.

The adrenaline in his system was making the blood rush in his ears, mixing with the pain and the anger. There was brief struggle as he knelt down, hips astride the reeling man’s pelvis, and aimed for his throat. Hands jumped up against his chest and Le Chiffre let out a snarl as he slammed the slim ‘hilt’ of the blade against the man’s vulnerable temple twice in quick succession. Hands were weary now as they continued shaking up to his throat, blearily trying to aim for his eyes. He didn’t give the man his chance. The blade slid into the flesh of his neck and pierced the artery pumping there, the force of the man’s heart causing the crimson fluid to spurt. He could feel it against his face. It didn’t take long for him to die, it was just messier than Le Chiffre had wanted.

To see what he had been reduced to; his mother would be disgusted. Meeting underlings in back alleys for information. His heart slowed from its racing pace as he stood but Le Chiffre still crammed his hand into his pocket for his Salbutamol inhaler, taking a swift shot from the device to calm his contracting lungs. It was distasteful to do so but he leaned back against the grimy wall, running his hand up through his dishevelled hair, slicking it back into place. He wiped the spattered blood from his face onto a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

The man at his feet seemed all the more worse for wear as the pool of arterial blood began to build around his cheaply dressed, crumpled form. Le Chiffre had never fooled himself into thinking he was built to be a fighter, he knew where his strengths lay, but when backed into a corner he tended to revert to an instinctual viciousness. He was glad for that tonight and decided that these chances were perhaps not as lucrative as he had hoped for.

He grimaced as he looked down at his ruined trousers and dinner jacket. The sweat on his brow had mixed with the blood, creating a pink sheen on the white material of his handkerchief as it was wiped away. He rubbed at his right wrist, wincing at the pain and the already discolouring flesh. Another drawback of his constitution, he thought, being how easily he bruised.

He cleaned his blade on the dead man’s shirt before recovering his lost pistol and re-holstering it. Now that the adrenaline was gone the anger was seeping back, now belied by a rising sense of panic that he did not enjoy in the slightest. _Sifar_ , what a pitifully overdramatic name he sneered, walking back towards his car in the warm, dark Paris night. _Zero_ , it meant, _nil, nothing_. He felt it was an absurd play upon his own moniker and did not appreciate the further intrusion on his business.

He entered the Bentley with little care and used a secure phone to call for a clean-up. The body should be gone before anyone found it.

* * *

 

It had been a month and a half since Le Chiffre had become aware of a plot against his untouchable empire. At the beginning it had been somewhat amusing; the very idea that someone would deign to outwit _him_. As days had marched on the small seed of doubt which had been sown within him had grown larger and larger still. Opportunities missed, work taking priority, background chatter, the growing sense of unease that made him realise that the betrayal was surely coming from within. Friends going dark, refusing him help, and even friends dying off in numbers too big to ignore. When potential clients had begun refusing his services Le Chiffre had been forced to realise the potentially fatal situation he had found himself in.

The yacht was quiet on his return; the way he liked it. Kratt met him at the entrance to his living quarters and did not mention or react to his dishevelled state. Le Chiffre entered his large bedroom and removed his clothes, putting on his dressing gown. He placed his ruined dinner suit by the door to be disposed of before stepping into the spray of the glass encased shower. He took his time smothering himself in strong smelling liquid soap, watching as the dirt and blood washed down the plughole. His wrist twinged as he scrubbed his hair. The water was warm but he reached out to turn it higher, then a little more. It burned against his skin but that didn’t matter. He stared at the fogged glass and felt the roiling swirl of dread build in his gut until he found himself standing, clean of soap and shampoo, under the spray of the shower with his hands against the wet tile.

It did not leave him as he dried himself and dressed in a thin, black cashmere jumper and pale brown trousers. Where did the sense of safekeeping slip to, he wondered with wry humour as he checked the laptop by his bed for communications on his latest venture. Nothing new. The sight burned more than the scalding water of the shower had. A tongue darted out to wet his lips and he resisted the sudden flare of temper that was eliciting him to break something in the close vicinity. He could feel the distortion of his lips as he swallowed the feeling down into his gut to sit with his unease, panic and fear.

Without thinking too much about what he was doing he pressed the intercom for Kratt’s earpiece.

“Where is Valenka?”

“She is still attending the midnight ball,” Kratt replied, “shall I fetch her for you?”

“No,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, “no, find me a distraction.”

“Right away.”

He was somewhat glad that Valenka was off ship. Not that he cared what she thought of him. As far as he was concerned she was a glorified trophy which he had won fair and square. Only a trophy was not to be desired or used beyond the winning. He was sure she was under no delusion that he loved her but he knew she was a jealous type regardless. She liked things to be hers just as much as he liked things to be his. Perhaps a foolish choice in partner but then her father hadn’t seemed to mind sacrificing his only daughter to his whims. That, in itself, had been pleasing. If there was one thing Valenka owed him it was his ‘rescuing’ her from that disgusting pig. True her life was probably just as restricted now as it had been then, but at least he did not demand sex of her as her father had. She did seem to appreciate that even if she disliked his preferred tastes.

The young man was already there when he stepped out into the living room area. Red wine and two glasses had been placed on the glass table and the lighting set to an ambient level, making the white leather chairs gleam in the reflection of the dark windows. He was early twenties, Le Chiffre would have guessed, brown hair with a hint of russet, pretty face but with a long nose that could have done with shortening, and rather stunning blue eyes. Le Chiffre was just glad that Kratt appeared to know his tastes well enough now to find him something he would appreciate. He took his time appraising the man until he was sure the other felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“May I pour you a drink?” the man asked in English but swamped by a heavy French accent.

“Yes,” he said, trying to keep his voice free of the trembling that was wracking his insides; he walked out into the room, down the two steps into the sunken area and then let out a sound of frustration. The young man looked up in surprise, his hand reaching out for the bottle, “actually no, don’t bother.”

The young man didn’t resist as he was taken by arm and neck and kissed forcefully. Le Chiffre guessed he was used to it. He wished to take it long and slow, as he usually would, but the want for a distraction was more urgent than he had realised. He hurried past foreplay, pulling the young man by the hand into his bedroom and throwing the door shut, locked. After a brief rummage for a condom and a quick undressing he had him on all fours on the bed, thrusting eagerly into the tight heat of the young man’s body.

It was rougher than he’d usually be, he knew from the muttered French cusses escaping the young man’s lips and the occasional whimper, but at that moment he didn’t care. The building orgasm in his gut seemed to be having the reverse effect of what he had hoped for. With every wanton shove of his hips the panic merely mixed with the ecstasy, creating a crescendo of fear and bliss in his system that was difficult to bear. He grabbed the young man’s shoulders and hauled him upright, forcing a cry from him. Le Chiffre growled at the change, the tightness gripping him, tearing at him, and forced the young man’s head around to claim his mouth awkwardly.

He was vaguely aware of voices beyond the doorway, the handle on the door turning but stopping as the young man beneath him was unable to contain his release, yelling. He continued regardless of the interruption, going until he thought the feeling might overwhelm him. Shaking hands gripped his hips as the young man came too quickly. Le Chiffre dropped him as he slumped forwards, continuing his punishing rhythm until he too found the release he had been seeking.

Only it didn’t do what it was supposed to. It was supposed to keep the fear from trembling inside of him, was supposed to replace that with warm heat and the sheer boneless relaxation that came with the post coital haze. Instead, as he pulled off the soiled condom and disposed of it, his legs somewhat weak, the feeling appeared to be amplified through his tingling, sensitive nerves. Who, who, _who_ , he couldn’t help but think over and over again, and how?

The buzz in his mind, still rushing with endorphins, allowed for starkness he didn’t think he would have allowed of his own thoughts otherwise. I’m dead if this isn’t stopped. Why play at seizing the throne? It’s what I would do. They’ll kill me and no one will be left to stop them. The thought sent a cold stream of reality coursing down his spine.

“Get out,” Le Chiffre said to the young man still laying on the bed, blinking his eyes slowly, as he dressed himself once more.

“But I...” he started, sitting up with a wince.

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

It was somewhat mollifying to know he could still terrify with six words alone. The young man was dressed and out the door within three minutes. Kratt would take care of it, he always did.

Le Chiffre licked at his lips and let out a distasteful sound as he realised he would need another shower. Later, he thought shakily, instead deciding a glass of wine would perhaps dull the nerves he’d been seeking to confuse with pleasure.

He found Valenka standing by the window, arms crossed tightly, staring out into the dark bay. He poured himself a large glass of wine and took a mouthful before putting it back down, walking up to join her. He was not surprised by her shrugging his hand from her shoulder, but the slap was rather unexpected. So much so that he blinked in shock for a few startled seconds before his hand was round her throat and he had her up against the glass.

“You smell of cheap cologne,” he hissed as her eyes widened with fear at the crushing fingers against her windpipe, “but you don’t see me indulging in petty jealousy.”

“At least I don’t let you catch me fucking other people,” she choked out.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you,” he said tightly, feeling a familiar warm wetness running across his left cheek and down into the dip of his nostril, “considering I don’t wish to fuck you at all.”

“Idi na xuy husesos,” she growled before spitting in his face.

He jerked her aside at the motion, closing his eyes against the indecorous gesture. She was stumbling up as he blinked open his eyes, storming towards the deck. He didn’t follow. Violence wouldn’t help, just as the pleasure had failed him. He stood for a few minutes, alone, and breathed steadily through his nose, eyes closed. Eventually he walked to the bathroom and washed his face, dabbing at the blood dripping from his eye until it stopped.

A sound from across the room got his attention. Le Chiffre walked to his laptop while patting his face dry with a soft towel. A message sat in his inbox, seemingly unassuming, with only one word encased inside.

Ellipsis.

It should have brought a smile to his lips but unfortunately it merely compounded his ire. A shortage of money wasn’t his problem. Information was. It seemed that, right now, all the money in the world wouldn’t stop the knife sliding into his back when he dropped his guard at just the wrong moment.

“Leo,” he said into the intercom, “inform the captain that I want him in the Bahamas in two weeks, Nassau harbour. And I want the jet prepped and ready in an hour.”

“Where for, sir?” Leo always insisted on the title, no matter that Le Chiffre had tried to train the habit out of him.

“Lynden Pindling International,” he said, “and book me the usual.”

“Of course, sir.”

The least he could do was go ahead with his current plans. Even though money wasn’t his direct concern, it wouldn’t do him any harm to have more of it to play with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Idi na xuy husesos" means 'Fuck off, cocksucker' in Russian


	2. Odysseus

The heat was oppressive and unappreciated. He was accustomed to air conditioning and chilled, bottled water, not the lame breeze of a rattling fan and lukewarm soda, which he had politely declined. Still, as it had been the first positive thing to happen to him in the last two weeks, he wouldn’t complain. Standing in the ramshackle hut in front of an insolently lounging warlord with the annoying pings of a pinball machine ricocheting in the background, Le Chiffre felt the sweat bead between his shoulder blades before sliding uncomfortably down to soak into the waistband of his trousers.

“And I can access it anywhere in the world?” he was asked.

“Of course.”

The man smiled unpleasantly, steepling his fingers.

“Do you believe in God, Mister Le Chiffre?”

A terrible quip rose unbidden to his lips, unsaid: _please,_ Mister _Le Chiffre is my father_. Instead he settled for a less inflammatory remark, yet unable to lose the wry humour.

“No,” he said, watching the man’s eyes narrow, “I believe in a reasonable rate of return.”

The meeting couldn’t have been over fast enough as far as he was concerned. Mr. White had stood in the background like a gargoyle the entire time, just over his shoulder, with the edges of his mouth tripping downwards unattractively. It had made him feel watched; an unappreciated feeling considering his heightened state of paranoia.

“Just make sure this goes smoothly,” White had said to him as they stood by the mud splattered jeeps.

“Your obvious doubt is noted,” Le Chiffre had said, “and ignored.”

White’s angular frown had worsened. Le Chiffre hadn’t bothered to correct it, even though he knew he was playing with fire. One thing he had noted with his paranoia, it made him reckless. He would have to watch that. He most certainly didn’t consider White a friend, or even an ally, but he was one of the few contacts he had left who he believed would lose too much by his demise to make him a suspect for the coup.

* * *

 

By the time he had returned to the Bahamas his yacht had already arrived. As had the bad news.

“This is what I get for hiring through substandard agencies,” he muttered to himself even as Kratt stood by, waiting patiently for his orders.

Le Chiffre was far angrier than he was letting on, anyone who knew him well could have seen that. Only, not many knew him well enough to know that the angrier he became the more he enjoyed a rather masochistic form of humour.

He closed the two day old news article on the screen, _British Government Agent Kills Unarmed Prisoner_ , and tapped his index finger lightly against the enter key. After a few second’s deliberation he thought it prudent to act on his usual style instead of trying to adapt.

“I want to know who he is, who he works for, why he was following our man and, if possible, friends and family,” Le Chiffre said curtly, “and bring me Dimitrios.”

He knew it wouldn’t take long to fetch the man but, in the mean time, he retired to his cabin and, toeing off his shoes just as his parents had always rebuked him for, he lay down on the bed and dozed. He recognised jet lag when it crept up on him, and in the past week alone he had travelled over fourteen thousand miles setting up his latest venture. He could feel the dragging time in his limbs, waiting to catch up to the flagging Bahamas daylight which his mind was sure should be black midnight, or thereabouts.

He reached over with a lazy hand and pressed the control panel beside the bed, the high windows dimming as they polarised. The darkness was welcome and he sighed through his nose, feeling the tightness in his shoulders relax, even if only slightly.

Another setback; the thought was intrusive to his calm but necessary to deliberate. _British Government Agent_. Then their man had been under suspicion already. No use for him in the first place, he thought, not for someone who would need to infiltrate the sensitive areas of Miami International Airport. Still soaking in his perverse need for inappropriate humour Le Chiffre almost wondered if he should thank this nameless, faceless agent for ridding him of an unknown problem. He did not suppress the smile but restrained the laugh, turning onto his side and slipping his eyes closed.

Next he knew he was blinking awake to a steady knock at the door. He sat up and lifted the polarisation on the windows only to be greeted with a similar darkness, barely tinged with a faint glow of dusk. He rubbed at his right eye with soft fingertips and then at the stiff muscles in his neck. He stood, raising the lights with a word and opening his walk in wardrobe. He changed into a light, white shirt and rolled up the cuffs, discarding the now crumpled one onto a spare hanger.

Kratt stood by the door as Le Chiffre emerged.

“Dimitrios is on the bridge for you,” he said, his voice naturally soft.

“Good,” Le Chiffre said as he walked along the carpeted hallway, “any news on our agent?”

“His name is James Bond,” Kratt said as they entered the business end of the ship, “MI6. As for further information, he’s an orphan with no siblings and, as far as we can see, no significant familiarities to speak of,” Le Chiffre wouldn’t say he hadn’t expected as much, “and so it seems our man Mollaka was under surveillance by the British Secret Service.”

“And now we’re about to find out why,” Le Chiffre said more to himself than Kratt as he pushed open the door to the bridge.

* * *

 

Again, just as things began looking up in one area the crushing sense of dread was redoubled in another.

Heni Marville-Beau, found dead in his London penthouse. Le Chiffre had not known him personally but had partaken of his services on several occasions to deal with certain problems. He was...had been an expert marksman and an unsurpassable sniper.

Yet it was not the loss of the man that made Le Chiffre narrow his eyes and rub at the stinging in his left temple. Most telling of all, as far as he was concerned, had been Heni’s connection to Quantum. As so many others who’d gone dark since the beginning of all this mess had been.

Now he was left, sitting staring at the screen, wondering if looking to his friends for suspects and not his employers had been a large oversight on his part. If he was correct, and at the moment it was just a hunch, then he considered himself, in a spark of startling clarity, entirely beyond help. If Quantum wanted him dead then he was dead, end of story. Le Chiffre swallowed and dismissed the thought, filing it away in case it ever became useful again. He hoped it wouldn’t.

If there was one thing Le Chiffre refused to believe it was that he had been beaten. Not like this, not with _no way out_. There was always a way out.

* * *

 

A familiar nightmare, but still no less disturbing for its familiarity. The light wavered and his ears boomed with the familiar, internal thump of his own heart echoing. The water pressed in around his face as the hand at the back of his neck tightened. Desperate lips straining to stay closed. A shake, a warble of breath fluttering out in a stream of bubbles. He felt his eyes sting as he tried to look at the darkness below him, unable to see the bottom.

He tried to scream even though he knew it was sheer madness to do so. The sudden remembrance of chill water sucking down his throat and into his lungs brought him into choking consciousness. He awoke gasping for breath, clutching at his chest, face soaked with sweat. The bedcovers were in disarray, half flopped onto the floor. He kicked away the remains still tangled around his feet and legs before stumbling for the bathroom. Too close to the dream to dare a shower, he instead mopped himself down with a cold cloth and listened as the soft patter of rain spattered against the window.

Stress, he said to himself. It always came with stress, not that he knew why. The psychology of it wasn’t something he wished to dwell upon. Instead he dried and dressed himself, despite it being five thirty two in the morning, and visited his private study in order to continue working without any disturbances. He spent the next four hours checking the state of his stocks, double checking transfers with accounts, making sure his middleman had purchased all of the necessary subsidiaries he required and, when he became bored and frustrated, beaten six high ranking, insomniac chess players in an average of under three minutes each.

It was at eight forty nine in the morning that an email came through to his private account labelled: **from a friend**. He had stared at it sleepily for a few seconds before realising how incongruous it was, then how entirely unknown it was, then how completely frightening that was. He felt suddenly awake as he sat up in his chair, watching the screen and blinking as if that would wipe the anomaly from his eyes. It was still there, however, staring at him. _Unknown Sender_. Le Chiffre felt his eye twitch and rubbed at the skin softly as he ran the email through every scanner he had. Once he was sure it was clean he stared at it for a while longer until he began to feel as if he were going mad and, eventually, opened it.

[Seems you’re losing friends at a rate of knots. Perhaps you should think about getting some new ones.

Also, White isn’t your colour. You should watch out for that.]

When he realised he was half way out of his chair and his mouth had fallen open, ready to call Kratt or anyone, _someone_ , to come and trace this message...he stopped. His mind was rushing but only in the usual, logical manner it did when he calculated odds. He sat back down, swallowing away the needless and irrational prickle of eyes upon his person, and looked at the email properly.

No sender, no name, no details, yet it was someone close or perhaps just someone _looking_ too closely at him. Neither were enviable positions. _White isn’t your colour_. Literally or figuratively? He chose figuratively because of the previous metaphor used and because his paranoia appreciated it. Then could this be a colleague, warning him that his fears were potentially correct? Had someone else picked up on the growing pattern in their associates’ dropping numbers? It must be a colleague. Who else knew of White’s identity? The man was even more of a spectre than he was.

After half an hour of following the trail alone he finally realised that he’d been sent around the world chasing the sender only to come straight back to the beginning again: Paradise Island. From here, the email had been sent from here. His muscles tensed. Then it could be a colleague, or someone in his employ. Ha, he thought dismissively, chance would be a fine thing. And he knew chance, all too well. For all the luck he was having lately he wouldn’t be surprised if MI6 had tracked him down. The thought, even as a joke, made him feel slightly ill; as if the wolves were closing in from all sides.

He wanted it gone, disposed of, but also felt that may be an imprudent move. _There’s always a way out_. No sense in burning bridges before checking if the moat was dry. Still, Le Chiffre felt shaken. He would have to keep this breach to himself, follow it with his own eyes. Revealing this to anyone he wasn’t one hundred percent certain was loyal to him and he was risking a swift assassination. If there was one thing Quantum demanded then it was loyalty. Unfortunately, it appeared that its employees could not expect the same courtesy in return.

The day fell into a malaise of irritating reports and bright sunshine. Le Chiffre decided to stay aboard while Valenka went ashore, saying she wanted a swim and a martini. When he informed her she could have both where she already was she became sullen and seemed to revel in showing off the bruises at her throat with the dress she chose to wear that day. Le Chiffre became quickly tired of her antics and asked Leo to take her wherever she wanted to go. That had rid him of a nuisance he did not need, at least, although he did feel somewhat aimless as he sat in the living room, the windows dimmed, and read while he waited for things to fall into place elsewhere.

A delightful distraction came in the form of a request later that evening from a known associate, Madame Wu, who had a ‘friend’ she wished to introduce to his poker table. He had taken the opportunity even though he was not truthfully in a state to play host. He allowed himself the diversion because he did not wish to allow his perfect shell to crack and let others see the nervousness inside. So he enjoyed cleaning ‘the general’ out. Valenka had even deigned to return, obviously having refused to use the gangway and swum back to the boat as she walked through the room in her blue bathing suit, towel around her neck to hide the mistreatment there. Le Chiffre appreciated the gesture, no matter how small. He knew he had a reputation as a sadistic bastard but he’d prefer to keep that for his enemies alone.

* * *

 

“I understand there have been some complications,” White’s voice was unmistakably superior, stretching out his vowels just a mote too long.

“Nothing that hasn’t been rectified,” Le Chiffre replied, looking down at the man’s face on the screen, regarding him dispassionately.

“Good to hear,” White said, looking not a jot as pleased as he apparently was, “then we await your confirmation of funds transferred.”

“At the usual time,” Le Chiffre nodded, hearing Valenka walk behind him; he reached forwards to end the call but was stalled by White’s addendum.

“I see your beau is still with us,” White said, a slight smile to the ends of his lips.

“I...yes,” he cursed himself for his hesitation.

“Apparently she made quite a devastating impression on the General,” White said, “I do hope you can perhaps have the same impression on Skyfleet.”

The transmission went dead without his permission. He stared, hand shaking slightly as it hovered over the keyboard.

“I’m going out onto the deck, would you like to come?” he heard Valenka ask; the next thing he knew there was a soft touch on his shoulder and he snapped his head up to look at her, “...is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he lied, “everything is fine. I’m busy right now, I’ll join you later.”

Instead he waited for her to leave before sitting down heavily in his chair and trying to run through contingency plans in his head. _Beau_. White could have picked from any number of words, _lover, beauty, woman, girlfriend_ ; instead he chose _beau_. The use of the single incongruous term turned the rest of the man’s words from polite and humourless encouragement into a thinly veiled threat. At first he tried to convince himself that it was purely a coincidence but failed miserably. Le Chiffre did not believe in coincidences. The odds were too high.

Heni Marville-Beau had been no accident; and now, by extension, he could assume the others over the past few months hadn’t been either. Had White wanted him to know that or had he simply enjoyed making the pun? Surely not. White was a business man and, as far as Le Chiffre had noticed, had no sense of humour whatsoever. It was what made him so incredibly dull.

He felt his fingers cramp into fists, trying to contain his shaking, angry worry. He pressed his right fist to his mouth and swallowed. If he was correct in his workings, and Le Chiffre always prided himself in his workings, then the threat was that he would be disposed of if he failed, that much was clear. Had the others outlived their usefulness? Was that what they thought of him? He was no longer useful now that he had competition? That all he was worth now was a bullet between the eyes from a high calibre rifle?

Then this will not fail, he thought desperately of the Skyfleet prototype. There’s no way it can fail. _Or perhaps there are thousands of ways it can fail, and you know every last one of them_. In truth, he was beginning to wonder if White and Quantum were willing to sabotage his plan purposefully so as to have a legitimate reason for killing and replacing him. No, he thought, too much money at stake, too much for them to lose. They wouldn’t need the impetus anyway. If they wanted him gone then no one would ever find the body.

His fists uncurled as he sat, thinking things through; the first sign that he was being half way rational about a situation that had forced him into irrationality. At this point, so close to the expiration of Ellipsis, he had very little room to manoeuvre. He pushed his fingertips softly over the plush leather arms of the chair, leaning his head back and loosening out his neck. He recognised the ingrained relaxation that came with feeling distinctly trapped, hating it for what it was.

The email had come from Paradise Island but had been bounced through several servers and IP addresses in order to disorientate. Only if the person had known who they were contacting they must have had a certain idea of his capabilities, and that he was able to trace almost anything.

The email was beginning to look less like a warning, nothing like a threat and more like, dare he even think it, an invitation. How obtuse a method for something so dangerous, he thought with distaste even as he found himself somewhat intrigued. The fear of death lingering over his shoulder was also a suitable motivation.

With his rationality screaming at him that this was a very bad idea and that being rash certainly wasn’t his forte, but with his intuition desperately trying to steer him from harm, Le Chiffre typed a reply.

[I do not think that ‘friends’ is an apt term for my line of work. Perhaps you should bear that in mind.

Truthfully I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage.]

After he had sent it the pulling weight of his decision seemed to cling to his shoulders. He sat, staring out of the window at the bobbing, shimmering ocean. If this goes wrong, I’m dead. If Miami goes wrong, I’m dead. And perhaps even if Miami goes right. He closed his eyes and tried to have faith in his judgment, hating that he was forced to rely on such a sketchy and amorphous philosophy as hope.


	3. Achilles

“James, where are you  _going_ ?”

Light, giggling laughter followed him as he rolled over in the bed and sat up. James grabbed his phone from the nightstand at an awkward angle, bumping his watch onto the floor in the process.

“I think...,” he said as he scrolled down the screen of his phone and saw the message there, hiding his unmitigated surprise behind a smile, “that we need more champagne.”

Rolling back over afforded him another quick, deep kiss from sensual lips and the press of a silk covered body against his bare chest before he got out of the bed altogether. He walked backwards out of the room, watching the blonde on the bed whose name he’d forgotten half an hour ago.

“And you really need to get out of that dress,” he said, smiling.

“Oh do I?” she said, biting at her finger and running her hand over her abdomen, “Then perhaps you need to try a little harder Mr. Harper.”

“Well, I always do like a challenge.”

Out in the main room of the villa James called for room service in order to keep up the ruse, in case the message wasn’t what he expected. No need to ruin a good night after all that hard work. A name flittered absently through his mind. Was it Daphne? Or Diana? Something with a D he was sure. She’d played hard to get whoever she was but the wedding ring had come off of her finger by the time he had her through the door to his hotel room. Keeping his first name had just made it easier on him, easier to respond to without having to try. Changing his second name was just elementary.

He tapped at his phone, cycling through the passwords into his fake account, and opened his inbox. His smile was almost involuntary in its suddenness. Well fuck me, he thought, letting a sound of surprise escape as he puffed out a quick breath. A reply. He hadn’t actually expected a reply from, as M seemed to like calling the man, ‘that slimy bugger’.

[I do not think that ‘friends’ is an apt term for my line of work. Perhaps you should bear that in mind.

Truthfully I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage.]

Standing in his rented villa on the Paradise Island coast, James Bond grinned like a schoolboy. Well this is a turn up for the books, he thought as he sat down. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next, hadn’t thought that far ahead if he was being honest with himself. It had been a long shot when he’d done it. The reply suggested the man was either reckless, which seemed unlikely from his profile, foolish, which seemed doubly unlikely considering his profession, or desperate, which seemed the most likely choice considering his circumstances.

James had seen the list of Le Chiffre’s known associates, dominated by thick red bands and the word ‘deceased’. Seems he wasn’t the only one who’d picked up on the pattern. He read the message again, biting at the nail on his right thumb. It had surely come from Le Chiffre himself as a man such as him was unlikely to allow others access to his private account and, further than that, only a chess prodigy would think to turn James’s own warning into a delicately barbed chess pun. So, he thought as his fingers hovered over the screen, continue dancing around the issue or head straight for the jugular? James would never say he was the most subtle of representatives when it came to MI6’s finest, but this situation seemed like a little care would have to be injected were it to come to any sort of fruition. He needed a face to face meet up, as unlikely as that seemed. No other way to catch a man as elusive as to call himself ‘the cipher’.

Then draw him in with something he can’t resist, James thought, looking to the door as room service knocked. He mused as he let the bellboy in, tipping him handsomely once he had placed the Bollinger in its ice bucket onto the table, and then shutting the door after him. He read the message again. _I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage_. A challenge, certainly. The man liked games it seemed, and it was probably safe to assume he didn’t like to lose. Probably didn’t lose at all, James thought, if M’s profile on Le Chiffre had been accurate. Maths genius, she had said, liked games of odds and strategy so as to prove his superiority. So challenging him to a game would be a sure route to failure only...

Only Le Chiffre had replied. James smirked. That he had replied at all showed James he was not only desperate but also arrogant, probably from years of remaining neigh untouchable. Then perhaps there was a chance, however slim, that he could take this one. James looked up from typing his own reply on hearing footsteps. The woman he’d left in the bedroom stood in the doorway looking a little put out.

“Do you ever plan on coming back to finish what you started?” she asked, hand on hip and silk dress deliciously rumpled; James momentarily lost his train of thought as he studied the delineated curves of her body through the clinging material.

“Mmm,” he said, sending the message before logging out of his account and smiling, “sorry. Something’s come up.”

“What?” she said, looking taken aback and angry all at once.

“Have to run,” he said, buttoning his shirt as he walked to the door, “you’ll need to finish yourself off.”

He was gone before she could begin shouting at him, the sent message resting in his outbox.

[Oh good, then as white I go first.

P–K4]

* * *

 

He had expected it to take far longer than the hour that it did for the reply to come through. Was it deliberation or work that had kept the man from replying? James wondered. He sat in his rented Ford along the street from Dimitrios’ house and read it as he continued in vain to try getting a signal from the bug he’d put on Dimitrios’ phone.

[P–K4

I assume there is some sort of forfeit?]

Great minds thought alike, James thought amusedly, even from opposite sides of the track it seemed. He wasn’t getting anywhere here anyway, Dimitiros must have had a jammer set up in his house. It had been worth a try but he hadn’t expected it to be that easy. James started the engine and pulled out into the road, heading back to the Ocean Club.

[What makes you think I want anything but the game?

N–KB3]

Mere minutes this time before the chime sounded. James felt a flush of victory. The fish was hooked.

[Quid pro quo. Everyone wants something.

N–QB3]

Smart man, James thought, if somewhat paranoid. I suppose I would be too in his position if that many people wanted me dead. He decided to let Le Chiffre sweat a while and postponed his reply. Let it prey on the man’s mind. James wondered what the man’s involvement with Ellipsis was. Surely something incredibly illegal, as well as nice and separate from the proceedings. Le Chiffre didn’t seem the sort to get his hands dirty. Still, it was nice to have at least a little power over someone who thought they could get away with murder; probably literally too. For a moment James imagined M’s face when he had to tell her how he’d drawn Le Chiffre in. Just what shade of purple would it go? He wondered.

After a nice, chill vodka and orange on the promenade James thought his next move through. The only way to play a bigger fish, he thought as he typed, was with a good lure. He just hoped that Le Chiffre would be too distracted to notice his ploy.

[B–QB4

A meeting. Your terms?]

He could almost feel the hesitation in his opponent as the minutes ticked by. James moved into the restaurant and ordered himself clam chowder with a side of fresh bread. He ignored the dirty looks he received when his phone went off in the middle of the luncheon service.

[Very tenacious. Or perhaps simply idiotic.

N–KB3

As for terms I already have your location. Your name would be only polite.]

Then he suspected? No, James was sure that if he knew who he was engaged in a battle of wits with then Le Chiffre would never have replied in the first place. Perhaps he was simply too conceited to believe someone outwith his circle of associates could track down his personal contact details. James took a mouthful of his lunch and figuratively patted himself on the back.

[Excellent, if you know where I am then you’ll know where to come once we’re done.

P–Q4]

* * *

 

It had worked. It had bloody well worked. As James read his opponent’s next move, B–QB5, he knew it was all over. Either he was a damned poor chess prodigy or James had been right and the man had been thrown off his game by distraction and paranoia. Once he sent his counterattack, R–K1, James was awarded with no forthcoming reply. For a full twenty minutes, a long time respective to the mere minute’s delay between previous replies, there was silence. James watched the water sparkle in the lengthening sunlight and gave it another five minutes just to be sure. He checked his phone. Nothing. He smiled as he typed.

[I’ll be in the Courtyard Terrace at seven.]

James decided to take a swim as the water was still warm. He gave broad, powerful strokes to take him forty feet from the shore, the water cooling the further out he swam. It lapped pleasantly around his shoulders as he treaded water, looking back at the shore and pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

Would he come? He thought. Admittedly this small dalliance into the more difficult route, as James liked to call anything that didn’t involve simply putting a bullet between someone’s eyes, could just be ignored by his opponent. Le Chiffre had no bargain to honour and, as a ‘slimy bugger’, James was sure that Le Chiffre only honoured bargains when it was of some advantage for him to do so. Of course the offer he’d given in his first message, the lure, the hook, _Perhaps you should think about getting some new ones_ , was hopefully enough. Considering how few ‘friends’ Le Chiffre had left, all of which he probably suspected of betraying him, James liked his odds.

* * *

 

“Table for one, sir?” the immaculately dressed maître d’ asked.

“For two,” James corrected him, “I’m expecting someone.”

“Of course, sir,” the man smiled decorously, picking up two menus and leading the way through the fairly busy terrace restaurant.

The air was sweetly warm, perfumed by planters filled with exotic flowers and natural sea salt spray from the ocean. The palm trees shivered as a soft breeze filtered in. He was seated at a table next to the low, inlaid cerulean pool at the centre of the restaurant, beneath the white canopies stained gold by the discreet lighting. The small fountain rustled pleasantly behind him.

He would have suggested the Martinique, more formal, more suited he was sure to his guest’s tastes, only this suited him better. Nice view, nice and open while also being enclosed; make it difficult for the snipers he thought, even though he was sure there would be none. If he did show then Le Chiffre would be arriving alone, he would bet on it. No one in his position would allow himself to be observed as beaten by their cronies.

“Thank you,” he said as he took the menu, opening it and relaxing down into the chair.

Nice, he thought, very nice indeed. It wasn’t often he could count himself as _almost_ on holiday. This was perhaps the closest he’d come in about, say four years. And that had been in the middle of a crisis, to put it mildly. Five days pretending to be dead wasn’t what most people would consider a holiday but James would take what he could get.

A casually raised hand called a waiter to him.

“The Domaine Leflaive,” he said, handing over the wine menu; the waiter nodded and left without a word.

Only two hundred and twenty dollars a bottle, he thought with a smile. Might as well splash out, considering it wasn’t his tab to pick up. He continued flicking through the menu while his mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t really hungry, the heat tended to drastically lower his appetite, but he would find something for the sake of pretence. When he heard footsteps approach he assumed it was the waiter returning with his wine. Instead he looked up to find someone sitting down in the chair opposite him dressed rather overdramatically he thought, considering the pastel and bright colours of the other diners, in an expensive suit cut in different shades of black and dark grey.

“I wouldn’t recommend the lobster,” James said facetiously, placing his open menu down on the table and unashamedly staring at the man across from him whose eyes were now trained on his own menu as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

“Oh?” the man said, not looking up.

“Mmm,” James continued, “saw them on the way in, looked quite worried, like they didn’t know which one was next for the pot. I’ve heard it makes the taste rather bitter.”

Finally mismatched eyes deigned to look up from the menu and regard him. The look he was given could have cut glass. James kept his slight smile and his partly casual slouch into his chair in place. Le Chiffre looked far different out of the green and white photograph in the MI6 computerised dossiers and into the real world. The pallor of his skin seemed less pronounced, even if still highlighted quite heavily by his choice of wardrobe. Everything appeared immaculate, from hair to clothes to well manicured fingernails. Even his damaged, milky left eye, with only a barely discernible pupil or iris, still seemed to stare into him.

The waiter arrived with the wine, about to pour into James’s glass before Le Chiffre put his own forwards without a word, still studying his menu. The waiter hesitated before pouring a swill into the offered glass. It was picked up with an elegant hand and tasted. James didn’t miss the blackening bruise barely hidden beneath Le Chiffre’s shirt cuff as he sipped the deep yellow wine, or the unimpressed twist to his lips as he swallowed.

“No,” he said definitively to the waiter, “Is this the Leflaive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring a bottle of the Jacques Prieur,” he said without hesitation, “and take this away.”

The bottle and the used wine glass were removed post haste. James wondered if the man was trying to impose his own dominance on a situation he had no real control over, or if it was just natural for him to begin changing everything to the way he liked it as soon as he had the chance. James chose both.

“Well, I do hope you’re footing the bill,” James said, closing his menu after randomly choosing something that sounded half way decent, “I think that eight hundred dollars for wine might be a little outwith my price bracket.”

“Then MI6 pays as well as I thought,” Le Chiffre said, making James’s casual pose waver, “or are you simply frugal Mr Bond?”

He must have let his surprise slip into more than just his pose as Le Chiffre’s, now that he looked at them, rather attractively full lips slid into an irritating, subtle smile. He did not ask but his ‘opponent’ obviously decided to tell him anyway. James got the feeling that Le Chiffre was the sort of man who reveled in telling people his workings.

“Actually, out of all my options, it was an educated guess,” Le Chiffre said, “besides your pronounced Cambridge accent, the callus at the knuckle of your middle finger where you hold your gun and your patented government superciliousness, this is an absurdly British time to suggest for dinner.”

Against his better judgement, James laughed. It was short and fast but seemed to, at the very least, wipe the smile from Le Chiffre’s face. He was glad for that. The man’s smugness had been starting to wear on him. James guessed that Le Chiffre was used to intimidating nearly everyone that he met and was obviously not used to, what James thought he would probably regard as, insolence, or some such other thing.

“Well, I can’t feel the laser sights on the back of my neck just yet, so I’m guessing you’re here for something other than just dinner. Or assassination.”

“Call it curiosity.”

Le Chiffre fell silent as the waiter returned. He tasted and approved the wine before they both placed their orders. James thought his lamb and berlotti bean cannelloni sounded rather sparse written next to Le Chiffre’s grilled sea bass with salsa verde and summer vegetables en papillote. Still, he tried to amuse himself, at least this puts a positive spin on things. Le Chiffre had been desperate enough to turn up even knowing who might be sitting at the dinner table.

“I’d rather call it something else,” James said as they were once more alone.

“Dare I ask?”

A hint of a slight rasp on the man’s sibilants; Swedish perhaps, maybe Danish. M had said Albanian but James was beginning to wonder if that was true, or if perhaps the man had been raised elsewhere. It was arbitrary now, he thought as he planned his next move.

“Anxiety,” he suggested.

“I do believe you are treading a very fine line, Mr Bond,” Le Chiffre said with a slight tightness to his tone.

“I try my best,” James said, “especially when there’s so much on said line.”

“Such as?” Le Chiffre feigned boredom.

“Ellipsis.”

An instantaneous reaction. Le Chiffre was seemingly unable to stop the twitch at his left eye; two fingers were automatically placed against the traitorous skin, rubbing lightly.

“Well, that does sound important,” Le Chiffre looked murderous but, beneath that, James was glad to see a spike of well hidden fear, “I do hope you are not expecting me to recognise it.”

“Oh, too late for that,” James said with a cheerful smile, hoping his bluff worked, “and I do hope that you’re not underestimating me now. Or have you already forgotten our little game?”

A sour twist to Le Chiffre’s lips, followed by a swallow as if he had just eaten something bitter and wanted rid of the taste. James hoped that the sting of defeat mixed with the man’s obvious fear and egotism would keep the conversation away from the fact that James had absolutely no idea what Ellipsis meant at all. As he watched a tongue darted out to wet dry lips. James allowed his smile to stay put.

“If there is a proposal you wish to give to me, Mr Bond, I would rather you spat it out and not dance around the issue,” Le Chiffre said curtly.

“We can offer you protection,” James said casually, knowing when it was time to play his cards, “in exchange for information.”

“No,” Le Chiffre said with the same infuriating superiority with which he had dismissed the wine.

“Oh,” James said, shrugging, “well, I guess I’ll just leave you for the dogs then. You can show yourself out.”

A con was always difficult to pull off when dealing with someone who was just as manipulative as you were, if not more so, and highly intelligent to boot. Thankfully, James knew from the chess game they had played and Le Chiffre’s growing unease, as well as the host of other tells he’d given away, that the man was hanging on by a thread. James thanked his lucky stars that he’d judged the situation correctly or he’d be risking a knife in his back any minute. Le Chiffre brought his fingers to his eye once more, smoothing away the twitch while his thumb traced his lips. Something was muttered, barely caught, perhaps ‘ _bir kurve_ ’, before the hand was returned to the table.

“I do not think that you can offer me the sort of protection that I need,” Le Chiffre said with a surprising honesty; James was almost taken aback by the momentary look of dread in the other man’s eyes. Then it was gone, disappearing once more behind perfect shutters.

“I do believe you’re underestimating me again,” James said.

“I think it prudent to base my wellbeing on facts rather than supposition.”

“You want proof?”

“You catch on quick,” Le Chiffre said, stare locked with James’s own.

What was it he had said? Quid pro quo. It seemed the phrase stuck like horse glue and stank just as much. He had hoped to get this in the bag before reporting in. M would be so much more agreeable to the plan if he already had something, or someone, to show for it. Le Chiffre preferably, with his wealth of information on terrorist and criminal networks, and dominion over their funds. Still, he had chosen the difficult route after all. He was starting to wonder if a bullet between those smug eyes, even clouded in fear, would be a better option. No, he thought with a smile, M would definitely kill him for that one.

“Alright,” he nodded as their dinner arrived, “what do you need?”

“I have a problem,” Le Chiffre said as he shook out his napkin and placed it in his lap.

“Oh?” James said, finding that he was hungry now that he could smell food.

“Someone in my close personal circle has been hired to kill me,” he said candidly once the waiter had gone, “I want him found and delivered to me, with proof.”

“Sounds like a bit of a tall order,” James said, unimpressed.

“So does your offer, Mr Bond,” Le Chiffre pointed out.

“Touché.”

“Find them and I will concede to your boss’s offer,” Le Chiffre said as if he were having to force the words from his mouth.

“Why do you think it was my boss that offered?” James asked.

“I always assume that the blunt instruments do not make their own decisions,” Le Chiffre said, “and also the fact that you have not yet killed me even though you appear to want to, quite badly, suggests you were ordered to take me alive. I hope this will not sour our relationship.”

“Heaven forbid,” James said acidly; he disliked being read like an open book, especially when he was trying his very best to keep his poker face up like a shield. He would have to watch himself. Le Chiffre was obviously far more observant than was healthy.

“Good,” Le Chiffre said, taking a forkful of fish and vegetables and chewing with a satisfied look on his face, “then you have three days, after which I believe I will be of no use to you.”

“And why is that?” James asked, starting on his own food.

“Because I will be dead,” Le Chiffre said matter-of-factly.

They ate in silence, James wondering how he had managed to pull this off as he surreptitiously watched one of the most dangerous men in the world eat fish across the table from him. Some days, he thought, things just went right for him. He hoped it would stay that way until the end of the week at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game that James and Le Chiffre are playing is a famous set known as 'The Skewer Lure', Andrews vs Jassens in 1864. It really is a beautiful little game and, if you like chess, you should look it up and watch the whole thing recreated. The move Bond plays to win the game, a queen bait (with two more moves which I omitted to force a checkmate), is just wonderful.
> 
> Also 'bir kurve' is Albanian for 'Son of a bitch'. I just enjoy the idea of Le Chiffre swearing. The man has too much composure for my liking.


	4. Paris

Two days later and Le Chiffre sat, espresso in one hand and the other to his mouth, looking at the limp figure of Leo slumped unconscious on a rickety wooden chair before him. He took a drink, enjoying the bitter flavour and jolt of caffeine in his flagging system. It seemed, he thought with a broad smile, that if you gave James Bond an ultimatum the man was incredibly efficient. I should have thought of hiring someone more suited to the job months ago, he thought as he let out a soft laugh to match his vicious smile.

Manipulating government employees who hid behind a veneer of morality always put him in a good mood. Men like Bond enjoyed feeling right; it allowed them a semblance of normalcy which, without, they would be nothing but ruthless killers. Le Chiffre recognised in Bond something which he had once been himself: a blunt instrument with blood on his hands scrabbling for a sense of justice. Only Le Chiffre had shed that ambition years ago. Now there was a considerable rift, he thought, between himself and Mr Bond.

Still, he had been useful for something at least.

Also it seemed Le Chiffre himself was not as suited to the world of espionage as some, considering it had taken Bond two days to do what he could not in over a month. However, the sting of being outdone was far outweighed by the end result. His ‘present’ was coming round, blinking groggily.

 _This_ was the part he excelled at, he thought as he stood up, placed his half drunk coffee down carefully on a crate and pulled the rope from his bag.

* * *

 

The third day rolled around quicker than he would have thought. He watched the daylight rise through one of the high windows in the abandoned warehouse, automatically reaching for his inhaler as he coughed, wheezing slightly. He stopped on realising that his right hand was still coated in a sticky layer of blood. Le Chiffre grimaced and pulled out his handkerchief from his trouser pocket with his left hand, rubbing at the mess.

So much worse, it had turned out to be so much worse than he had imagined. Le Chiffre swallowed, turning to walk towards the small bag he had brought with him, past Leo’s naked, bloody corpse still tied to its chair, and rummaged for the bottle of disinfectant. He washed his hands and then rinsed them with a water bottle. Once he was done he took a shot from his inhaler, changed out of his clothes and into a fresh set and a pair of gloves. He put the soiled ones, along with the bag and its contents, into an empty bin and set the whole affair ablaze. Leo was next, the gasoline stinging at his nose as he poured. Still, getting rid of the evidence didn’t wipe away the proof Bond had delivered him. If only it could, he thought.

 _“Oh god, oh_ god _please! No! No..!” the sentence slid into an inarticulate howl as Le Chiffre swung the rope hard, connecting with a telling thump._

_There wasn’t much left of the man, if Le Chiffre was to be honest with himself. Of all the inventive ways which he had devised over the years with which to pry information from people, he found that prolonged and agonising pain was the most effective. For men, an easy and humiliating torture was simple. Some put up a fight, held out for rescue, mercy, whatever else hope could bring them, but nearly everyone crumbled. Pain and fear were the basest of instincts. It was difficult to override something that you were programmed form birth to escape at all costs._

_He dropped the rope to the ground, running a hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat. It was hot in the warehouse, like a brick oven. He wished Leo wouldn’t be so very obstinate. It was ruining his complexion._

_He reached down to pick up the long dagger from his chair. The look in Leo’s eyes was blank, stained with resignation, sweat and crusted blood. Of the multiple bruises, cuts and welts on the man’s prone form, none were fatal. Le Chiffre decided to push for a more direct agony, hoping to break through the last of the man’s ‘hope’._

_“Then perhaps you should consider spilling your guts, as they say,” Le Chiffre said as he walked in front of Leo, sat shaking and trembling, and played with the knife in his hands, “or I could do that for you? Perhaps I should let you do it yourself. Traitors are supposed to take their own lives, aren’t they? But then maybe you were never loyal in the first place. Or not to me, anyway.”_

_Leo didn’t talk, just shook his head nervously and tried to stop his face breaking into spasms of weeping and realisations of horror at his situation. Le Chiffre’s smile did not reach his eyes as he walked forwards the last few steps to place himself flush against Leo’s side. He could feel the sweat from the man’s arms and chest soaking into his trousers. Le Chiffre rested the sharp edge of the knife against Leo’s shoulder, tracing the sweat beaded skin there._

_“A name, how much you were paid and_ why _,” Le Chiffre said for the third time that night, “and maybe there will be enough of you left to save. The longer you make me wait, Leo, the less there will be.”_

_“I don’t...I don’t...” Leo huffed out harshly, head shaking violently, unable to tear his eyes from the knife; Le Chiffre let his smile drop and pushed violently with the knife against the soft skin, sinking the dagger in half way until he felt it scrape against bone._

_The scream of agony had been abrasive but what came next even more so, “Haines! Ah,_ ah _it was Haines!”_

_Le Chiffre twisted the knife half to spill more information from Leo’s lips and half from involuntary fear. Another scream and useless squirming as blood began to flow from the ground open wound, laying bare muscle and fatty tissue from beneath the skin._

_“He...he...he,” Leo puffed out in breaths, his eyes wide, “didn’t pay me. I didn’t meet him...it was White, he came and said Haines...he wants you dead. Said...” a choking sob and Leo began to cry in earnest, his face twisted with grief and choking sobs of agony, “...he said he knows what you’ve been doing. That...that money wasn’t as important as knowing who to trust.”_

He would give Leo this, Le Chiffre thought as he walked along the Miami promenade towards the harbour, it had taken eighteen solid hours to break him. It was plainly obvious that Leo was terrified of whomever he was going to reveal and, on hearing the name from blood stained lips, Le Chiffre couldn’t blame him. He assumed that, at some point, Leo had realised Le Chiffre was going to kill him regardless and had only given the name up when he had understood that he was already dead. There was only one Haines he knew of powerful enough to cause this much dread while inspiring that much loyalty. Mr White may have been a lapdog of Quantum, but Guy Haines was an alpha.

Le Chiffre stumbled over a crack in the pavement as he walked. His exhaustion made the recovery all the harder, forcing him to reach out and steady himself against a nearby wall. This was a mess, such a large, fractured mess. If Haines was the master behind the puppet strings being pulled then MI6 would be no saviour to him. Not with the British Prime Minister’s private advisor being the source of his assassination order.

He did not want to go back to the yacht. The feeling was sudden and visceral. A rising panic that had him hauling out his inhaler again. He hadn’t suspected Leo any more than he had suspected everyone else. So which of the others were watching and waiting? Waiting for him to let his guard down? The propellant left a bitter taste in his mouth as he hauled the misted spray down into his lungs. He swallowed. Fuck, he thought suddenly, _fuck_.

Nowhere to run.

 _There’s always a way out_.

Le Chiffre ran his hand over his face, smelling the twang of disinfectant on his fingers and the barest hint of gasoline. One thing that hadn’t added up, as far as he was concerned, was why he was still alive _now_. If Haines and White wanted him silenced then a sniper’s bullet or an assassin’s knife would do the job. Leo had been their mole within his private world, separate, or so he had thought, from Quantum’s expectations. What had Leo been waiting for? Ellipsis? But the man had said money was not their concern, which Le Chiffre could believe. Quantum was not exactly short on money, that much he knew from his own private investigations. Perhaps, he thought, some of the reason he was being targeted was because of how much he knew. Le Chiffre cursed under his breath, wishing he’d had the foresight to keep his eyes where they needed to be and away from where they were not wanted.

 _He said he knows what you’ve been doing_. The blood pumping in his veins drew colder from his heart. He closed his eyes.

So where now?

A tongue darted out to wet his lips. He would have to keep up appearances or risk raising suspicion. There was no point in taking the chance to spoil the fact that the only thing keeping him alive right now was that he was obviously destined for something he did not know about. Not yet. Until then he was living on borrowed time. He would return to the yacht and give Dimitrios the go ahead. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, one with a slim but hopeful chance of leaving him breathing at the end of it.

But first, he needed to lay the groundwork.

* * *

 

He found Bond’s villa without too much trouble. The man hadn’t made much of an effort to hide himself, although Le Chiffre would allow for the fact that he probably wouldn’t have needed to if he hadn’t made himself so visible to Le Chiffre in the first place.

The main living room was pleasantly cool. Le Chiffre took a moment to inspect the rooms, finding nothing useful, and then realised he was doing the one thing that had put him in this mess in the first place: snooping. You always have to know everything, don’t you? he asked himself. Before he would have thought of it as contingency; now it seemed more like prying-with-consequences.

Still, the lack of evidence did not count for nothing. There was a telling placement of shoes by the side of the bed. Smartly together and tongues turned out. The bed itself was turned down immaculately, not in hotel fashion but a rigid, military style. The watch and the book on the dresser were immaculately straight with the counter edge. In the small kitchen a bottle of water and an apple had been laid out as if in preparation for being eaten. Typical boarding school behaviour, Le Chiffre thought. He should know, it had taken long years to drum the familiar behaviour out of himself after all.

He sat for twenty minutes by the window, staring out at the water, before the panic began to slip back in. He was being given too much time to worry. The adrenaline from earlier was beginning to seep back into his blood, he could feel it in the thump of his heartbeat against his breastbone. The shake in his hands as he reached for the water he’d poured himself.

Fuck it, he thought arrogantly.

He took a shower while he waited, if only to rid himself of any vestiges of dirt, blood, the smell of disinfectant and the growing panic. The towel was clean and soft against his skin, unused. As he dressed in Bond’s bedroom he wondered if the man had even been there at all since last night. The bed appeared undisturbed. It was as he buttoned his shirt that the press of cold hard metal appeared at the nape of his neck. Le Chiffre smiled without humour.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?”

Bond’s tone was hard even with the relaxed lilt; somehow this animosity and sheer improbability of their combined situation made Le Chiffre feel absurdly safe and in control.

“Quite,” Le Chiffre said.

As he turned he allowed the muzzle of the gun to trail his throat until it sat against his jugular. Bond’s eyes held none of the conceited playfulness from their dinner the day before. Cold and steel-like, they watched him dispassionately.

“You smell like a bloody cleaner,” Bond said, stepping back a little but not lowering his gun, “I’m guessing your man didn’t survive the encounter?”

“Does that bother you, Mr Bond?” Le Chiffre asked, buttoning up the last of his shirt.

“Do I look like I care if one scumbag offs another scumbag?” Bond said dryly, “What I’m more concerned with is why you’re in my bedroom.”

Le Chiffre smiled with teeth, looking down at his feet. He sat down on the bed behind him and clasped his hands together. One scumbag, hmm? He thought. How eloquent. Le Chiffre was sure Bond had no idea what he had muscled his way into, or just how much he had made himself as big a target now as Le Chiffre was. He was unable to stop the laughter from escaping his throat, slightly hysterical.

“It seems that I have miscalculated,” he said.

“As pleasant as it is to hear you’ve screwed yourself,” Bond said, “that’s not an explanation. If you’re seen here there won’t be much of a point to our little deal, will there. I’m pretty sure that you’ve miscalculated before and didn’t feel the need to run and tell me about it.”

“Miscalculated before?” Le Chiffre had only been half listening, already calculating whether or not this would sink him completely, “Our game you mean? How naive of you to think that I did not throw you a bone there.”

“What?” Bond frowned, “Look, I don’t need you to...”

“You must have thought me a proper little fool,” Le Chiffre said, laughing again, “losing to such a simple ploy. I wanted to give you a chance, at least, or perhaps give myself a chance. Whichever.”

“Will you shut...”

“You do not know what Ellipsis is,” Le Chiffre said, quieting the man into a sullen, fuming silence, gun still aimed, “just as you seem to have only a moderate grasp of chess.”

“ _Moderate_ ,” Bond snapped, making Le Chiffre’s shark smile widen.

“I could have taken you any way I wanted, Mr Bond,” Le Chiffre said, musing on all of the counter plays he could have used to decimate his opponent in their ephemeral game, “I still could.”

Instead he had sacrificed his king and a small part of his dignity in order to set up a meeting where his opponent would think themselves safely superior. So far it was all working out far better than if he had just ploughed on alone. He looked at Bond, watching him angrily in return. The adrenaline still rushing through his system was giving him odd ideas about where he was and how much he could risk.

The gun did not waver but Bond’s eyes narrowed.

“No thanks,” Bond said acidly, “you’re not my type.”

Well, he hadn’t intended to take it anywhere near _there_. Sleeping with the enemy; very dangerous territory indeed. Even if it was usually very pleasurable, dangerous territory. Although he found it interesting that Bond’s first instincts seemed to have steered him towards innuendo. Le Chiffre smiled.

“Not your type,” he repeated, “Male?”

“Single,” Bond said the word as if it were distasteful and the gun was holstered.

“Just goes to show how much you know about me,” Le Chiffre tilted his head and Bond narrowed his eyes.

“We had a deal,” he said, steering away from the odd tangent they had taken.

“I’m changing the deal.”

“That’s not how deals work,” Bond said tightly.

“It is when there is suddenly more on the table than the original bargain.”

“Thought you’d managed to weasel your way out of assassination.”

“Actually I was thinking less of my sudden demise and more of what I am now able to offer you. I suggest you get your boss on the phone, Mr Bond. Tell her that there’s a bomb set to go off in Miami airport tonight, seven o clock eastern standard time, but that it will be diffused in the way I deem necessary,” he watched Bond’s face tighten and his muscles bunch, “and that I have a new chip to play which may interest her more than the futile, uninteresting terrorist plots with which M16 must engage on a daily basis.”

“And I’m supposed to just go along with it,” Bond said as if he were talking to himself, shaking his head, “why are you even telling me all this? Fit of conscience from a near death experience? Don’t feel hurt, but I’m disinclined to trust your motives.”

“Oh, my motives are very much understandable,” Le Chiffre said, pushing his wet hair back as it fell onto his forehead, “unlike you appear to wish me, I very much enjoy being alive. If the only way to remain so is to bring down those who want to kill me, then so be it. So, the phone Mr Bond.”

He sat on the bed and listened as Bond called ‘home’ in the next room. Even laughed when he realised the man was being reprimanded, talking over someone loudly. Things were falling apart so quickly that it was difficult to keep up with shuffling away the rubble. Le Chiffre stood up, tucked in his shirt and made himself presentable.

No reason not to face Quantum with style, after all.

* * *

 

“Someone talked.”

He felt his eye twitch in sympathy with his lie and hoped that it came across as a suitable ‘show’ of his anxiety as he stood and watched the news reporters at Miami International Airport. The ‘anxiety’ he would have been feeling had the foiling of the Skyfleet bomb been a surprise and not to the very precarious plan he had developed in the past five hours. That it was falling into place, however unstable, seemed more miraculous than down to his immaculate skills.

“Do you need me to contact anyone?” Kratt asked him discreetly.

That his right hand was actually _asking_ was more telling than what he asked. Kratt knew his place; to speak when spoken to. I really must look dire, Le Chiffre thought.

“Get me Bradleys,” he said, “there might be time to salvage this.”

There wouldn’t be. He already knew there wouldn’t be. He was betting on the fact that there wouldn’t be. Yet he accepted the phone regardless, to keep up the ruse.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure yet how much you’ve lost,” his stock broker said with muted sympathy.

A lot and he told him so in exact figures. Yet perhaps stood to gain more than that in return, or would, if this all went through. Le Chiffre sucked in the bitter tang of his inhaler and wondered how much a life was worth in monetary value.

His own was priceless to himself. How much was it worth to others?

_“You evacuate and call in the threat and you’ll get nothing.”_

_The Boss with which he was making his deal wasn’t quite what he had expected. M, as they appeared to be known, was filtered through a voice changer that made him feel as if he were having a conversation with a dalek. He was tempted to tell the woman that the ruse was unnecessary considering he knew exactly what she looked and sounded like, but felt it would be prudent to continue allowing MI6 to feel as if it had the upper hand._

_“What you offer seems unlikely. You should know that,” M said._

_“It is an unlikely situation I have found myself in.”_

_“You know this could all be solved quite simply by arresting you. I find interrogation works wonders on informants.”_

_“Or it would, if you had anything to hold me on.”_

_“Precise details about a terrorist attack should be enough.”_

_“I called in a bomb threat. I’m nothing more than a concerned citizen. Besides, if you arrest me now you’ll get nothing more than a pawn,” Le Chiffre hated to refer to himself as such but had decided being candid was the way forward for now, “what I can offer you sits upon the back ranks.”_

_A moment’s hesitation, just long enough that he knew he was understood and his offer was being considered. Then..._

_“Go on.”_

_It was what he loved about the British. Such a practical people, despite their almost overwhelming pride and arrogance._

“ _I’m sure you have the ingenuity to make it look like you figured this all out for yourself. Once the attack fails, believe me you’ll have the eyes of people whom you will likely find very interesting focused on me.”_

_“You’re offering yourself as bait,” even the computerised voice sounded unconvinced._

_“I’m already bait,” Le Chiffre smiled, knowing no one but Bond would be able to see it anyway, “I’m offering myself as bigger bait. If everything goes according to plan, or should that be when everything falls apart, I can bring about a situation that will be most lucrative for us both. All I need is some protection. Then, once all is said and done...I suppose I will be at your disposal.”_

Though it was unlikely that it would ever come to that, he thought as he stood by the window, staring out over the wine dark sea. He refused to make his indefinite incarceration by the British government part of his long term plans. If they believed he would sell himself from one slavery to another, they were quite mistaken.

He clung to the tenant by which he lived his life as a drowning man would a shard of flotsam: _there was always a way out_.


	5. Menelaus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a conversation between Le Chiffre and another in this chapter that's in Serbian. Only a few lines, but just to let you know the translation is at the end of the chapter.

Sometimes he looked at it. Found himself sitting idle and his hands would wander to his laptop, keying into his utterly secure, and yet pointlessly so, Cimbanque account, linking him directly to Bekb BCBE in Bern. Most of the time he did not. Staring at the minus sign lying rather innocuously before the rather large set of numbers in his account only served as a reminder.

Or a warning. A minus sign could mean so many things; a lack of, a dearth. Or a subtraction. He would close the laptop with a snap and let it drop onto the couch beside him, ignoring the sway of the cabin. He would pour himself another glass of brandy and he would drink it quickly.

The cabin itself afforded every luxury; recessed queen sized bed, foldaway table for private dining with couch and armchair, en suite, private porter and drinks on tap whenever he asked. His name, it seemed, still sung high praises even if his account merely spat red ink. It had been easy to fudge it in the end. Much less dangerous to fly into Serbia and take the train to Podgorica than to fly straight to the capital. Too many people watching the easy ways in. Taking the sleeper train was the best he could do in a tight spot, only hoping that his enemies wouldn’t take it as a first choice.

He’d sent the others with the yacht. The last thing he wanted to do was alert Valenka to the danger. He knew she’d already been suspicious of their separate travel arrangements, even though it was not out of the ordinary. Leo was ‘missing’, and he had barely spoken to her before flying to Belgrade. He just hoped she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut and stay calm until they met up at the hotel in the capital.

By the time they reached Užice it was dark and he was rather drunk. A small train station, nothing fancy. They did not stop. Just barrelled through past the dim lights, back into the swallowing darkness. He wished he could look out and see the mountains, they would be snow-capped at this time of year, but the night was too complete.

Now he found himself standing before the window, looking out at nothing and trying to think of just as much. Only he could not stare out, for the windows were black with the darkness outside and all that stared back at him was his own reflection. Shirt undone to the collarbone, hair dishevelled, cuffs rolled up, eyes half lidded. Le Chiffre rubbed at his nose with his wrist before taking another sip of brandy, letting the fumes perfume his nostrils.

A mess, he thought derisively, look at you, _you’re a mess_. He felt the absurd need to laugh. Just the drink, he thought, I shouldn’t have kept the bottle. The porter hadn’t even questioned him when, instead of taking the offered glass, Le Chiffre had simply taken the entire tray from his hands, bottle and all, before tipping the man with a handsome, green one hundred euro note stuffed into his collar.

After the first two glasses he had begun to wonder why he hadn’t simply pulled the young man in along with the tray to complete the package; he had been attractive enough, and he had not been blind to the blush or the small smile on his face before the door was shut on it. Would have passed the time a little more inventively than simply getting himself blind drunk. He laughed into his glass, a little half-heartedly, a little giddily.

It was going to work, wasn’t it. Wasn’t it? He was fed up questioning himself and yet the question continued to roll around. It would work. He’d done it before, well not quite under the same circumstances. Not under threat of certain death if he lost and uncertain but possible death even if he succeeded. Not that he was worried about the game, no. Poker was his specialty and he wouldn’t doubt himself on that. He never doubted odds and numbers and ratios because they were reliable and easy to deal with. They did not betray you, they could not be bribed, they did not change their minds or have fits of conscience.

People did. People could almost always be relied upon to be unpredictable and useless. Thorns where there should be silk, acid where there should be champagne, a knife where there should be a gentle hand. He’d done all that before too, he thought vaguely as he contemplated the suddenly empty bottom of his brandy snifter.

People; that was why he hated people. Complicated people. Who needed them. Would be so much fucking easier if he could just...just sit up in a high tower somewhere and look down. Yes, look down on everyone from above while they walked and talked and killed and lusted. Unaware they were even being observed. Yes, something like that would suit him, he thought. He laughed into his glass once more as he leaned his bottom lip against the rim, inhaling the residue. When the cabin swayed again he found himself stumbling slightly to stay upright.

The knock at the door made him freeze before he started for the gun he had stashed in the cabinet by the bed. He paused when the knock came again, accompanied by the porter’s voice. He licked his lower lip and let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes. _Relax_ for god’s sakes. You’d think this was the first time someone had wanted you dead.

And yet it was almost as bad as the first time, or perhaps worse. This feeling. The first time someone had tried to kill him it was with his own knife, knocked from his own hands. Enver Asllani had never done more than beat him during any chance alone encounter, in the cloak room, the changing rooms for the large, cold gym. Even once or twice out in the forests surrounding the boarding school when they’d been on field trips. Le Chiffre knew he’d only had himself to blame for bringing the knife to school as defence, one which was quickly turned to offence when he found it pushed against his own throat.

Remembered the struggle, the grunting, huffed breaths. The jeers of the other two boys Enver always kept close, quiet and low to avoid attention, but fitful with aggression. Remembered the feeling of rolling in the mud with arms tight around his torso, wheezing like a pathetic pig, gasping for air that his asthmatic lungs could not draw in. Remembered the short, sharp sting across his left eye and the feeling of wet heat against his cheek.

When he answered the door to the porter Le Chiffre was not in a fit state of mind to deal with people. He stared at the young man as if seeing through the blood he was sure was dripping into his eye, slipping down his face. Should be slipping down his face, dripping from his chin.

Dear fucking god I need a distraction, he thought wearily.

“Cep, Ја сам дошао да наплати боцу,” the porter began, his Serbian giving his young voice a unique huskiness, “јеси ли добро..?”

Le Chiffre reached up to run an unsteady hand across the young man’s right cheek. The flutter of eyelashes, which preceded the frown on the young man’s face, barely registered before Le Chiffre grabbed him by the front of his immaculate uniform and hauled him inside. The door was pulled clumsily shut as he crushed his mouth with sensuous slowness against the younger man’s lips, hearing a muffled sound of either surprise or protest as he pushed him against the wall.

Pulling back, Le Chiffre looked into his pale blue eyes, focusing as best he could through the pleasant haze of alcohol and adrenaline. He leaned in on his forearm, placed by the man’s head, crowding him against the wall.

“Ho?” he asked, reaching up to unclip the first button on his uniform.

“Ja... не треба,” came the only protest he would be given, as Le Chiffre continued to lower his hands and pop buttons.

It was as simple as dropping his hand to the front of the man’s trousers and squeezing gently. Closed eyes and a gasp allowed him to lean in and claim soft lips, sliding his tongue gently across another’s. Hands hesitated at his elbows before sliding up and around his back.

The bottle sat forgotten on the table.

* * *

 

He would have liked to say it was the early morning sun that woke him, but he knew it wasn’t. The fear, mixed with a healthy dose of paranoia, had kept his sleep light. Even after the previous evening’s rather interesting diversion, he had not fallen into as deep a sleep as he had hoped. Too many nightmares plaguing him; waking him up sweat soaked and gasping, eyes straining in the pitch before rolling him over and back into fitful sleep.

He had spent the early morning in his cabin sobering his hangover with coffee and salted, boiled eggs which he had ordered from the kitchens specially the night before. They tasted wonderful and helped chase away his headache in conjunction with the paracetamol and the large glass of iced tonic water.

A brief and very odd thought wondered into his head as he stared at the rolling, vineyard dotted hills of Crkvine rushing by: was Bond awake? It had been an arbitrary thought mainly because he wanted it to be. He _wasn’t_ thinking it because he wondered if anyone else was as worried about his insane plan as he was. He _wasn’t_ thinking that the last time he had spoken to Bond the man had seemed to be contemplating a myriad of different ways to dismember and hide his corpse. He _wasn’t_ thinking that the man was practically the only ally he had on this venture who was aware of the details. It was merely arbitrary.

Yes, arbitrary. He drank his black coffee and sat back in the wide armchair by the bed, the small table folded up before him.

Vindictively he hoped Bond had experienced nothing less than a terrible, what would it be? Flight? Cruise? Box car? He smiled grimly and wondered how much the British government was willing to splash out on its operatives. He suspected not very much. Or maybe just wished.

By the time they rolled into Podgorica central station the granite seemed grimy in the late afternoon light, wet with earlier rain and chill with the lasting moisture in the air. Le Chiffre pulled on his thigh length jacket and buttoned it tightly. He was glad there was no need to wait, as the porter took his luggage to the platform where he found his contact, Markus Vint, waiting for him. The last time he’d been to Croatia Vint had managed to secure him safe passage out of the country when things had gone against the plan. He hoped that the man could be relied upon for the same services if the need arose again.

The platform echoed with the sounds of departures and arrivals. People swarmed around them as they left the train, chatting and hugging. The young porter tried to catch his eye but Le Chiffre merely looked straight through him.

“The car is out front,” Vint said stoically, his bony face and bald head making him seem like a misshapen dice.

“Good,” was all Le Chiffre could think to say; he took his bags and swerved the porter as he left, ignoring his downcast eyes.

The modern wonder of Podgorica city centre, with its gothic tower blocks, ornate office buildings and stylish, sail-like suspension bridge, gave way to the more rustic but pleasantly aristocratic countryside. Vint drove the car, a silver Bentley, through the orchards and vinyards and past the distant mansions until they began to climb uphill. Soon he found himself in a small cafe district. After a short personal errand to a patisserie he spotted on the way, they eventually arrived at the hotel he had booked for the week before the tournament; the very picture of the Montenegrin countryside estate. Wide palisades, castellated walls, dull grey paths of winding stone to reach a high, portcullis through which warm light and soft music spilled.

Vint threw the keys to the valet who rushed out to greet them, before accompanying Le Chiffre inside while the porters took his luggage.

“Valenka and Kratt have arrived?” he asked quietly as he pulled off his gloves.

“They got here about two hours ago. Kratt said to tell you he’s gone into town to sort...” Vint quietened as the porters passed them by on the way to reception, only speaking again once they were out of earshot, “...to sort some business. Financial. Herr Mendel is just looking for some collateral, apparently.”

“I thought he might,” Le Chiffre said tightly, stuffing his gloves into his pocket, “I am sure Kratt will think of something. The yacht most likely.”

He checked in, quickly and efficiently thanks to Mr. Borgjevič the concierge, and then declined Vint’s offer to go to the bar and find a bottle of something hard with which to toast lady luck. The Serb had shrugged off his refusal with almost comical confusion before heading to the bar. Le Chiffre headed to the lifts, glad that it was a smooth ride despite the old architecture. When he arrived at his room his luggage was already placed neatly by the bed.

Or it would have been if Valenka hadn’t been in the middle of tearing it open and tossing its contents across the room with a guttural scream. Le Chiffre took a moment to stand in the doorway and observe the chaos of pristine white shirts and black velvet dinner jackets flying through the air, before he calmly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He removed his jacket and coat, carefully hanging them up in the small cupboard by the door.

“Sookin _syn!_ ” she screamed at him, hear face tear stained, her short, blue summer dress hanging from one shoulder.

“I would appreciate it if you would at least insult me in English,” he said bluntly as he loosened his tie, “I like to know just what kind of fucker I’m being called.”

“I called you a _son of a bitch_!” she growled, grabbing his spare inhaler from the messy suitcase on the bed before launching it at his head.

He dodged easily but watched her coldly regardless. She didn’t waver, instead falling back from blazing anger to choking tears as her voice came in sobs.

“You’re nothing but a filthy, fucking murderer. That’s all you are!”

“You’ve heard about Leo.”

“He was my friend!”

“He was your casual fuck when you couldn’t find anything else,” Le Chiffre countered snidely.

“It doesn’t surprise me you’d say that, you heartless shit! You wouldn’t know-know...” she took a moment to draw in a pained breath, clamping her hand to her mouth, eyes tight shut, “...you wouldn’t _know_ what it was to be loved if it stabbed you in the _fucking_ heart!”

“And here I thought you just said I had no heart,” he said, cocking his head.

She lunged for him, hands blearily aiming for his throat. She was weak willed in his hands but she twisted like a cat, all wiry strength and anger fuelled determination. When he let her go she caught him across the neck, leaving behind a searing agony which made him hiss. She stared at him for a few seconds in a shocked sort of triumph, before she seemed to come to her senses and storm from the room.

He wanted to go after her. Go after her and slam her up against the nearest wall and _explain_ to her just what sort of traitor her precious lover had been. He’d known for months that Leo and Valenka had been having an affair. It had been obvious to see in the way Leo had always volunteered to take her ashore when she wanted it, or complemented her choice of dress just to see her smile. He hadn’t done anything about it because he simply did not care. If she was happy then it was nothing to him. It had been nothing to him...until Leo had happily sold both him and Valenka and his crew into the hands of Quantum as sacrifices on a silver platter.

 _He would have watched you die for a measly couple of million_ , he wanted to shout in her face; but he did not. Could not. He didn’t want to create more of a scene than she already had, and probably would some more when she made her way to the bar red eyed and barefoot. He hoped Vint would take care of her. Stupid fool that he thought her sometimes, he was surprised by how much he didn’t want to see her hurt.

“Yes, room service please,” he said after dialling reception; he waited to be put through, “I have some clothes I would like laundered and ready for Tuesday. Yes. Room...twenty three. What? No, no. Tell Mr. Borgjevič I already have plans for dinner but it was kind of him to ask the kitchens to keep something aside. Yes. Thank you.”

He piled the clothes in a semi-neat heap on the hope chest at the bottom of the bed, retrieved his inhaler from under the chest of drawers and tried to make himself seem as presentable as possible. When he looked in the mirror it appeared to be a vain endeavour. The dark smudges beneath his eyes seemed worse due to the pallor of his skin, the terse line of his thinly held lips showcasing his stress, the livid red scratch at his throat. He combed his hair, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It’s all going to work out, somehow. All of it. He opened them and stared at himself, still the same slightly ill looking, scared, tired individual he’d been moments before. He leaned forwards and placed his forehead on the glass before fishing in his pocket for his secure phone. When it rang in his hand he jumped, letting out a swift curse.

“Yes?” he bit out, knowing who it would be.

“You’re bloody late,” Bond said tightly.

“I am well aware. Did you call me just to inform me of the obvious?”

“I called to remind you that this isn’t a normal day at the office and I’m _not_ one of your lackeys. I don’t have to hang around waiting for you to decide you might want to drop by.”

“In fact I think you might be,” Le Chiffre said slowly as he wrote a quick note on the pad of paper by the ornate cream and white landline phone, “a shame that you’re having trouble adjusting. I’m sure it’ll come sooner or later.”

“Fifteen minutes and I’m gone.”

“I’ll be twenty.”

He hung up before another abrasive syllable could be spouted at him. It was both an irritant and a joy speaking to agent Bond, he found. A lesson in acerbic dialogue as well as a dance of one dry sense of humour against another. He hoped the man didn’t lose his patience and knife him in the back. It would be so tiresome. He ripped the note from the pad of paper and left it on the nightstand.

_Gone for a drive. Don’t call me.  
J._

He’d never told Valenka his real name. Had never told it to any of his associates, in fact. There was something he always found thrilling in signing his notes with a slanted ‘ _J_ ’. Perhaps young Jean liked the idea, somewhere in his youthful memory. Le Chiffre shook his head and left quietly, pulling the door to and locking it behind him. He took the Bentley and drove out into the fading evening light, putting his foot down as he revved over the waves in the road, making his stomach jump.

* * *

 

It was with a justified and yet juvenile pleasure that he found Bond’s hotel to be far less luxurious than his own. Still passable, somewhat, but there were far too many normal people filtering in and out of the main entrance. Upper-middle class tourists. Not his favourite type of person. Know-it-all attitudes and nouveau riche arrogance. Enough to make his skin crawl. He sat for a further five minutes before he became too impatient to wait any longer.

Exhausted, fractious and fed up, Le Chiffre broke the silent accord of being as discreet as possible and marched into the hotel. Despite believing himself to look truly awful, he still found he garnered quite a few envious glances as he walked to the reception desk in his dark grey and black Armani suit and matching bespoke Givenchy shoes. He allowed himself to be momentarily thankful that Bond had chosen somewhere downmarket to hide himself. He needed the ego boost.

“I am looking for Mr. Beech,” he said to the young, red haired receptionist, “I believe he checked in today. He’s expecting me.”

“Oh, yes sir,” she said in a heavy accent, quick to comply, “just a moment please. Ah, yes. Mr Beech and his fiancé are in rooms one five nine and one sixty. Would you like me to call?”

“Not necessary,” he said, giving her a charming smile.

As he walked the long, carpeted hallways, footfalls turning to dull thuds, he smiled at the word _fiancé_. So, Bond had a minder, did he? Somehow he was sure that being given a partner, by the Government which obviously did not trust him to do this alone, was probably something Bond found even more irritating than having to work with Le Chiffre himself. He laughed softly to himself. His evening was looking up considerably.

When he knocked on the door to one five nine, picking it arbitrarily from the two he’d been given, it was answered a few moments later by a slim, pale woman with a pile of dark hair loosely but artistically pinned at the crown of her head. She eyed him narrowly before turning back into the room, which appeared to be a twin with an adjoining door sitting open, and spoke slowly but precisely with an unidentifiably tinged British accent.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“And why the hell would I be joking about...” came a voice from the next room, nearing and nearing until Bond, fiddling with his top shirt button, walked through the door and stared blankly at him with crisp blue eyes, “fucking _Christ,_ get him in here!”

“I’ll take that as an invitation,” Le Chiffre said, smiling as he stepped into the room and heard the door shut behind him with a snap.

“Did you tell him to come here?” the woman asked with a calm anger that Le Chiffre couldn’t help but admire.

“Of course I bloody didn’t,” Bond bit out, “you were supposed to meet me...”

“I am well aware of where we were supposed to meet, and when, do not lecture me Mr. Bond,” Le Chiffre said uninterestedly as he ran his eyes over the room, taking in half hung up clothes, an open laptop that was disappointingly on a screensaver and an open make up set on the vanity counter, “and I must advise that you will have to learn to be flexible if you wish to survive this venture. Plans change.”

“So I’ve learned since we so unfortunately met,” Bond said, “I’m beginning to wonder if you ever had a plan or if this is all just a big, expensive set up. Or maybe you’re just a moron, could be either really.”

“How crass,” Le Chiffre said, unable to stop his eyes from narrowing, “and here I’d thought you were brought up with manners. You haven’t even introduced me to your lovely fiancé.”

“Vesper Lynd,” the woman said articulately before another word could be uttered by either of them, “not that I’m sure it’s necessary as you probably know more than just my name. However, now that I have your attention may I be so bold as to inform you both how utterly and completely this entire operation hinges upon a lack of testosterone fuelled, boys club nonsense to have any chance at all of succeeding?”

A short silence. Bond’s lips were a tight line and Le Chiffre couldn’t wipe the smile from his face.

“I had certainly been informed of your name, Ms. Lynd, but my informants neglected to notify me of your unique charm,” he said, “utterly spectacular.”

“Excuse me if I am not flattered, Mr. Le Chiffre. James if you could perhaps take a minute to consider what we were talking about before we were so rudely interrupted, then I would appreciate it. Good evening gentlemen.”

She gave him a wide smile that could have soured milk before leaving.

“And here I thought you might have had an unpleasant journey due to the transport,” Le Chiffre said, smile still in place.

“Just shut your mouth,” Bond said, “we’re leaving before you fuck this up anymore than it already is.”

They left through the kitchens and out the back door into a small alley, where a sleek, grey Aston Martin sat in the shadows of an ancient archway. Le Chiffre felt flippantly at ease. Must be the mountain air, he thought as Bond put his foot down and, he was sure, purposefully drove them out into the now pitch blackness of the countryside with ferocious speed. By the time they stopped in a small lay-by on the road which overlooked the city, he had to admit he was feeling slightly nauseous.

“At least now I am no longer hungry,” Le Chiffre muttered to himself, “any particular reason we are sitting in the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s almost as if,” Bond began with an incredulous puff of breath, completely ignoring him, “you forgot I’m not here for _your_ benefit. I’m here to do my job.”

“To kill my co-workers and entrap my employers, I am well aware,” Le Chiffre said, “and of course let’s not forget myself into the bargain.”

“Yes, let’s not forget the important details after all. You pull another stunt like that and I’ll gladly put the bullet in you myself.”

“Would it be worth your career?” Le Chiffre couldn’t stop the sneer in his voice; the sickness in his stomach had severely dampened the lightheaded gaiety he’d been floating through earlier, no matter how hysteria induced it had all been.

“Almost,” Bond said convincingly.

“Do you want the information or don’t you?”

“I want you to stop jeopardising me and my mission, just so you can get some infantile kick out of these power plays.”

“...Alright,” Le Chiffre ground out, taking a deep breath, “if you force me to be civil.”

“I’m amazed it’s possible.”

“Everything is in order,” Le Chiffre forced himself to carry on and not be pulled in by the insult, “the tournament will begin on Wednesday without delay. Herr Mendel of the Swiss bank is handling the finances.”

“We can trust him?”

“He’s an old colleague.”

“Then you can trust him. Can I?”

“He’s a Swiss banker.”

“Fair point.”

“Each space has been filled, the money deposited. And the sharks have begun their circling early. Of those who have bought in there is one I know for certain will be a...problem, shall we say.”

“Problem? I’m not fond of the word.”

“Helena Jesper,” Le Chiffre said, “the only woman at the table. When I did a background check hers was suspiciously clean and tidy shall we say.”

“You think she’s a plant? From whom?”

“I’m not sure yet. I have my people working on it but I can’t delay and, if she turns out to be a bigger problem than I was expecting, I don’t have the time or the resources just now to find a new player. If this rouse is to work we need to keep up the facade that I need the money.”

“You do need the money,” Bond said with a soft, unpleasant laugh, “that’s the funny part.”

“Hilarious.”

“Oh, sorry. I left my tact in my other jacket.”

“I knew this would be obnoxious,” Le Chiffre said, leaning his head back against the cushioned head rest and closing his eyes, “but one is never aware just how much something will hurt until it is truly happening to them.”

“Never have truer words ever been spoken,” Bond agreed grimly.

The darkness was momentarily lifted and the silence broken as a car rounded the corner and drove past them in a rush of air and motor fumes. Le Chiffre bit at the inside of his lip and wondered how he had managed to fall this low. It was something of a wake-up call, being trapped in a confined space with someone who appeared to loathe him in return with equal measure and not simply be able to have them removed from his presence. Or dropped overboard.

“If you would be so kind,” he said neutrally, “as to drive me back to my car.”

“If you can recommend me a restraunt that’s open and doesn’t sell the usual tourist crap, perhaps I can.”

“The Catovica Mlini,” he said without hesitation; suddenly his hunger returned on speaking the name, now the nausea had receded. The last time he had been, it was four years ago? Maybe five. He could still remember the taste of fresh prawns and homemade hollandaise, lobster bisque with scallops and port. He felt the wicked recklessness stealing over him once more and couldn’t find the wherewithal, tired and starving as he was, to resist it, “not that you could afford it,” he heard Bond inhale sharply and smiled in the dark, “no, in fact forget the fucking car. Just take me there. Drop me off. Do whatever the hell you want.”

“This is ridiculous,” Bond muttered.

Le Chiffre was sure it wasn’t directed at him. Then the light came on, blinding him. He blinked and squinted in the glare before looking at Bond, staring at the slightly fogged glass of the windscreen. He reached out and turned the car on with a rumbling purr, pressing another button which caused the fog to diminish, Le Chiffre guessed a windshield warmer.

“Are you going to drive or am I going to have to flag down a passing car?”

“I’d pay good money to see that.”

“Would you pay good money to have your kneecaps surgically realigned?”

“I don’t buy your threats, you _need_ me.”

“You don’t need your knees to play poker,” Le Chiffre smiled, shark-like, “now if you would hurry. I’d rather get there while the more desirable menu items are still available.”

When nothing happened Le Chiffre looked to his left and found Bond shaking his head, that derisive smirk plastered on his face. He felt the need to smack the man’s head into the steering wheel. Seeing blood would have solved a lot of anger issues he was having. Instead he decided confusing the infuriating man beside him was a far easier and less messy mode of revenge.

“I’ll even treat you. It seems to be a growing trend that we have at least one passive-aggressive dinner together that I pay for per continent.”

For a moment Bond looked as if he would say something. Something insulting and inflammatory no doubt. Le Chiffre silenced him by reaching up to flick off the in-car light and reattached his seat belt, running his thumb under the soft material. Bond let out a terse snort of air and reached for the gearbox, jamming it into gear and tearing out onto the road.

Le Chiffre was sure that by the time he reached the Catovica Mlini he would be too sick to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serbian translated:
> 
> First of all the Porter says - "Sir, I came for the bottle,"..."are you alright..?"
> 
> Then after the kiss Le Chiffre asks him, "Ho?", which means "No?"  
> to which he replies "I...should not."
> 
> Also just to say thanks to those who've reviewed and left kudos, I was just writing this story for fun and didn't think many people were interested, so it's nice to know people are :)


	6. Priam

The room was spinning. He wished it would stop, because it was unappreciated.  _If you would just stay still_ , Le Chiffre thought with a woozy smile,  _then my stomach would perhaps be less upset with me_ . Somewhere in his brain he acknowledged the ludicrous nature of his silent conversation with an inert room.

The realisation was quickly dismissed as the door to the room opened. The stabbing light shot a golden oblong onto the dark carpet. Le Chiffre watched it with bright eyes and a need to laugh. Even when thumping footsteps approached he couldn’t truly care. Two cold, clammy hands took hold of him on either side of his head and a gloomy face was forced into view. It was then he realised there was someone sitting on top of him, legs astride his hips.

The copious amounts of alcohol in his bloodstream puffed up into his brain and made everything alright again.

“Darling,” he said softly to Valenka, even as she sat on his pelvis and watched him like a hyena curled over its prey.

When he’d had too much, she always became _darling_ to him. All of the bitter resentment, the hatred, the disgust and the need melted away under the guise of drunkenness. Somehow, when inebriated, they became able to function together. Or at least it was so when they were both in a similar state.

“You’re drunk,” she stated hollowly, “you drunk pig.”

“Get off me,” he fumbled with her hands but couldn’t stop the laugh as they scrabbled together, his hands flailing a little before he gave up.

His need to laugh wasn’t even related to her. Not truly. The laugh had come from earlier, _how many hours now?_ It was a desperate laugh because he knew there was no humour to be had. James Bond needed some humour in his life, though Le Chiffre was sure that if the man ever did more than smirk sarcastically his lips would be sucked down his own throat in punishment.

Still, it didn’t mean he should have lost so much control.

They’d had dinner and he’d got himself very drunk, for simple and yet simultaneously complex reasons. In fact, somehow he’d managed to get them both very drunk. It could have had something to do with ordering copious bottles of wine before their meal had even arrived; the restaurant had been very busy and it had been three quarters of an hour before the starters had been brought to the table.

Could it have been an attempt to drown sorrows he’d rather forget? He would begin to worry about himself if it were true. He had already visited the bottle on several occasions since his life had descended into the sort of desperation to rival a Dostoyevsky.

So perhaps he could blame it on needing to be drunk while he was around Bond, because the man was insufferable. Only...he hadn’t particularly _needed_ to be around him in the first place so...

Maybe he had wished, just a little, to see Bond in a vulnerable state. The man was a series of false walls; when one crumbled, another was swiftly built in its place to surround the nugget of truth lying at the centre. Le Chiffre liked to know everything, he couldn’t stop himself most of the time, _look at how you got into this very situation, you fool,_ he reminded himself.

Still...if exposing the man’s vulnerability had been the original plan – which, drunk as he was, he still couldn’t be sure – then a further titbit of information had fallen into his lap as a bonus. Bond _had_. He had allowed him to get him drunk. The man wasn’t a fool, even if he appeared to be reckless to the point of Le Chiffre marveling at the fact that he still had a job most of the time.

Bond had sat there, with his mortal enemy, and hit the bottle as if it were a competition to see who could waste themselves first.

Unfortunately, counter to the plan, drunkenness of the kind he was experiencing now did nothing for reconnaissance. Now, he couldn’t even remember if it had worked or not, whatever it was that he had been trying to do, because he was too far gone to care. Life felt hazy, muted, safe, blissful and utterly inconsequential. Gloriously so.

Valenka was still staring at him. Her eyes were very dark. He was sure she had been angry with him, was still angry at him, though he didn’t care to remember why. Once more he reached up and pushed at her. This time he managed to dislodge her from her perch. She stumbled to the other side of the bed.

“Did you ever care?” she asked as he rolled onto his side, facing her.

“What?” he mumbled.

“About me, did you ever?” her voice was low, quiet and upset; it was so unlike her that even Le Chiffre took notice, “You took me away from that bastard. My life, _my life_ all trussed up in pearls like a doll for my father and you...and you were...”

Only when he opened his eyes did he realise he must have closed them. She was kneeling, hunched over with her arms on the bed and her head hanging half way to her chest, the light from the still open door casting her partly in dark shadow. When she looked up he thought her eyes were shining. Tears.

“Darling,” he said again, because it sounded like the right thing to do at the time; he fumbled his fingers across the sheets to hers, curled tight in the bedspread. He couldn’t imagine being angry at her now.

His mother, he had held her when she cried and raged and hated his father for what he had reduced her to. _‘Don’t worry, mother darling, one day I will take you away from all this. I promise you’._

“I thought maybe everything would be alright now,” she was saying, soft and low, her voice and the memory in his mind blurring together, “But I don’t know. I just don’t know anything anymore. The first time I saw you, you were...you were so handsome, and independent, and you didn’t care what anyone else wanted. Just what you wanted. Just you. You waltzed in and you beat him at a stupid game and I couldn’t _believe_ that you did it. That you turned down the money and the cars and the casino in Moscow and all of the other stupid _chto-libo nanosnoye_ ; you picked me instead.”

“It’s not important,” he mumbled, slurring; _it wasn’t important that she was angry, just that he could keep things steady, make sure she didn’t leave, make sure she didn’t leave him because..._ “you’re alive. I’m alive. I can...keep us that way.”

“What if just being alive isn’t enough anymore?”

“Darling, please,” he closed his eyes and behind them sat his mother’s cold, bloated face as they cut her down from the tree branch, “I can’t talk about...please. Not now. I need to sleep. Come to bed, darling...”

The yawn was involuntary. In trying to cover his mouth he managed to hit himself in the face. Laughing through the yawn was interesting for two reasons; he was expelling as much air as he tried to draw in, and this time nothing was funny. Nothing at all.

He thought he could feel a deep seated sadness trying to rise up through the haze of alcohol puffing through him. Le Chiffre stared up at the ceiling and blinked, tyring to think of something else, quickly, so as not to...

“I hope he didn’t crash, the fool,” Le Chiffre muttered to himself, thinking of Bond driving back along the winding country roads blind drunk; when he refocused Valenka had not moved. He blinked slowly and enjoyed the delayed sink in and out of darkness, “everything will be fine,” he tried to believe it as he said it, and found it easier than it should have been to buy his own lies, “come lie down with me.”

“No,” she said, pushing his hands away half-heartedly, “you’re drunk.”

“You’re angry with me. I dislike you being angry with me. Come lie down. You’re cold,” he felt her uncovered arms as he took hold of her bicep, “you’re cold, come and lie down.”

When he pulled her into his arms he could feel she was crying. The world was warm around him and he felt dizzy with the heat of it.

_It will be alright mother, I promise one day I’ll..._

His left hand rubbed at her cold skin while the right fumbled through her hair in a best guess of affection.

“Such a shit, you’re such a _shit_ ,” she sobbed, “why can’t you just love me?”

“Shhh,” he said helplessly, “it’s alright, darling.”

“Why’re you always so nice to me when you’re drunk? You drunk pig.”

“Shhh,” he repeated, heavy eyes falling closed.

She clung to him as if she thought he might disappear if she let go. Le Chiffre cradled her carefully as he could considering, kissing her forehead softly and murmuring nonsense into her hair.

“There’s always a way out, darling. Always. Just finding it’s a little hard sometimes and love isn’t always the answer. It seems sometimes it does not exist at all. Don’t rely on love. It is fickle and hateful. Don’t rely on that, darling. Rely on yourself. Believe me and I’ll keep you safe, yes? I’ll keep you safe. I’ll take you away from all this, I promise you.”

The darkness was not something he wished to slip into, yet he did so regardless, without his consent.

* * *

 

“...And that’s all I could find, Le Chiffre.”

Standing above a bank of six laptops, wires, boxes which he had no idea what they did, and other hacking paraphernalia set up in the unassuming room Twenty Nine down the hall, Le Chiffre took two ibuprofen with a swallow of water and sighed.

Helena Jesper was not a ghost, but nor was she a full flesh and blood traceable person. And he could find nothing about her that should stop her playing at his table, other than the fact that she was an obvious plant. From whom? He did not know. Why? He did not know that either, although he could make guesses.

To take the jackpot for whoever had her hired, because the absurd amount of money at stake was always a draw.

To take the jackpot and leave him utterly vulnerable, because it would be a swift, uncomplicated and viable way for Quantum to have him taken out. If so, then she was the one Bond would want to keep his beady little eyes on, as she would lead him right to what he wanted.

Or she was here to kill him. Just kill him; no frills, no tip.

“Keep looking,” was all he could say through his hangover.

“I’m not sure what else I can...” Kratt started.

“Start another sentence with ‘I’m not sure’,” he said bluntly, fixing his eyes on his second in command, “and see what it gets you.”

“...Yes, Le Chiffre.”

“Good.”

He didn’t inform them of where he was going, he just left. It was proving easier to treat almost everyone he knew and felt any sort of vague connection to with complete disdain. His headache appreciated it. His bruised ego and disgust at himself for his previous night’s frivolities appreciated it even more than that.

Thankfully Vint accompanied him without his having to ask, hulking along at his side like a sour faced bulldog.

This was all the fault of one James Bond. Le Chiffre reminded himself of that as he walked down the stately corridors towards the entrance. All his fault.

When they reached the lobby, a familiar sight greeted him. Valenka, dressed in an oddly demure knee length dress decked in cream and black, stood beside the reception desk looking at the fresh flowers by the bell. She wore a sash looped across her back and through her elbows. When she caught sight of him she smiled in order to complete the package of confusion and surrealism she was presenting.

Memories of the night before _mixed with the memories the night before had stirred in him._

“Are you going into town?” she asked as she rushed up to him and kissed at his cheek, “I haven’t been out since we arriv...”

The last word was strangled shut as Le Chiffre bared no bones about grabbing her arm in a tight enough grip to twist the skin. From this angle no one would think they weren’t simply having an intimate conversation between two lovers. He pulled her close and spoke into her ear; quiet, harsh and deadly.

“Is this some sort of game for you?”

“I don’t...” she sounded hurt and afraid; he could not care about that.

“Because it seems like some sort of game to you. You know why we are here,” she tried to pull away but he simply twisted harder, eliciting a pained exhalation of breath, “You know they want to kill me, imprison me, have me as their _dog_ and you would like to what? Go shopping and hang from my arm as if we were simply lovers abroad? As if we were simply one and the same? As if...”

He pushed her back just far enough to see her face; no tears, but the fear was there. The fear he’d always seen in her, in _his mother’s face._ _I’ll take you away from all of this, I promise_. The memory of his young voice and his mother’s tears enraged him, blinded him with anger that she could bring out the memories he kept hidden so expertly.

“...as if I could ever love you.”

She blinked, three times, and her lips moved without words. He pulled her close, sliding an arm around her back to keep her from fleeing.

“Take her upstairs,” he said to Vint quietly, “and keep her there.”

“Alright boss,” Vint didn’t argue, which was what he needed; people who didn’t question him at every turn.

“Goodbye, darling,” he said, loud enough for those nearby to hear, smiling as he leaned in to kiss her softly; knowing that the affectionate moniker would burn her more than he should have meant it to.

The drive into town was not as harassed as it would have been, had he not the ability to be as heartless as Valenka accused him of being. The leisurely run from the hills to the banking district was almost pleasurable, if he hadn’t been in such a foul mood. It was a cloudy day, steel grey sky puffed with the pregnant threat of rain. By the time he reached the meeting, there were spots of water on his windshield.

Le Chiffre did not appreciate the weather mirroring his temper.

“Ah, so good to see you!”

Herr Mendel had been his associate for the past seven years, and yet Le Chiffre was still unable to fully accept his bright, chirpy, always-smiling demeanour without feeling as if he might like to strangle the man a little just to temper it.

“And you, Herr Mendel,” Le Chiffre lied.

Herr Mendel’s temporary office in the Banco de Credito Montenegro was glass, floor to ceiling, with only one wall solid enough to hang diplomas and family photographs from. The room was situated at the pointed end of the building, built to an almost isosceles-like design. The corridor had seemed to narrow as he’d been led to the office, ratcheting up his paranoia.

Now it made him feel nervous, exposed and itchy just to be sitting in the leather chair before Herr Mendel’s desk. Being able to look down onto the busy streets five floors below, see all the way to the mountains in the east, the waterfront in the west and just make out his own hotel in the south, it only made him realise he was available for assassination from three of the cardinal directions.

“Can I get you anything? An espresso? They do the most wonderful espressos here.”

“No thank you.”

“Very well,” Mendel shrugged at his standoffish mood, sitting down primly with a smile, “are you here to finalise our arrangements?”

“Please.”

“Of course. If you would just put your signature here and here and...” Mendel put one last squiggle of ink on two sheets of paper before handing them over, with the pen and a smile, “...here.”

Le Chiffre wished to staple his lips closed. Instead, he took the sheets and signed, reading as he went. It was not pleasant reading.

“Your associate Herr Kratt made me aware of your collateral. It is more than enough to have us fund this little venture. There are your still viable stock holdings,” _ouch_ , he thought facetiously, _that hurt_ , “your offshore investments and, of course, your yacht the Tee Jay Esperanza. Quite a fine vessel, I must say.”

“Isn’t she,” he managed to say through a clenched jaw, “So, it will be done by electronic transfer, to any account?”

“Of course,” Mendel picked up a spray bottle from a nearby shelf and began puffing water vapour onto a Japanese peace lily sitting at the corner of his desk, leaving a mist of droplets to fall upon the floor; the mess itched at Le Chiffre’s skin, “before the start of your fine tournament, I will ask each contestant to enter a password, which will link directly to the bank here for the acceptance of their winnings. Then they will transfer the money, et voila.”

Le Chiffre handed over the signed documents, watching them as they were taken as if his life was being handed away. He felt that banks tended to have that affect on most people, and so didn’t consider himself alone in the feeling.

“All very straightforward,” Mendel assured him happily as he pressed a button on his slim phone cradle, sunken into the desktop; moments later a tall, attractive, blonde woman in an immaculate mauve thigh length dress appeared. Her legs seemed to go on twice the length of her torso. He found it distasteful, returning his eyes to the ridiculous windows and the sweat inducing view.

“Thank you Ulla,” Mendel said as he handed over the papers, “have them taken to Herr Grünsch down the hall.”

She left without a second glance from Le Chiffre. When the door closed Herr Mendel’s infuriating smile widened, joined by large eyes.

“Too blonde?” he asked.

“Too female,” Le Chiffre rebutted.

“Ah,” he shrugged again, “then I believe our business is concluded. I will see you next at the Casino Royale, monsieur Le Chiffre.”

In all the seven years they had known each other, Le Chiffre had never bothered to correct the title. It was easier for people to believe of him whatever they wished to believe.

It made life infinitely simpler.

* * *

 

Dressing well was something he had always enjoyed. When he was younger he had done it to show his superiority to his classmates, _his father was a wealthy and renowned author, no matter how much he loathed him_. As he had advanced in his self-assigned career as an entrepreneur for criminal investments he had done it to show his stark professionalism, _everyone expected the man handling their money to dress as if he had just as much of his own to spare_.

Yet tonight he felt as if he were doing it to show he was a force to be reckoned with, and just a little for the vanity of the act. He had looked like shit for the past week, between the stress, the alcoholism, the wounds Valenka had inflicted and the glazed look of fear ever-present in his eyes, he knew that tonight none of that could show. He must be immaculate, unreadable.

 _You have to look like you belong at that table_ , he thought as he tied the black silk bow tie to his neck above his matching charcoal shirt. Atop that a black velvet, three buttoned waistcoat to pull in his broad chest to his slim hips. He combed his hair with particular care, the side parting measurable by a hair’s width. The hotel had done a wonderful job getting the creases out of his dinner jacket, black velvet with charcoal silk lapels. He was slipping his inhaler into his trouser pocket just as Vint arrived.

“Well,” he said in his standard monotone, “don’t you look a million bucks. Isn’t that what the yanks say?”

“Hopefully I’ll be looking one hundred and fifty million by the end of this,” Le Chiffre quipped, “is the car ready?

“All ready,” Vint nodded, “Valenka is all ready too.”

“She is?”

“I explained to her why it would be best if she just played along for now.”

A spike of anger pitched in his stomach at his phrasing. Le Chiffre walked to Vint with careful slowness. When he reached the man, already half a head taller than him, he looked up and managed to see the man look vaguely worried for a split second.

“Did you touch her?” he asked quietly.

“Not a finger, boss.”

“Good. Because if I hear you’ve harmed a hair on her foolish head I will personally give you a death you’d wish would come sooner. Am I clear?”

“All clear,” though Vint looked like he might be thinking Le Chiffre had gone a little crazy in the head.

“Then we may go,” he said, walking out into the corridor.

He was well aware of his failings. Hypocrisy was one of them, though it didn’t rear its head often. Emotions usually caused it to invade his life; stupid, foolish emotions.

When he slipped into the car Valenka was there. He watched her as Vint started the car and began the drive to the casino. She looked beautiful, her hair pushed into a side parting, a fall of blonde over her left eye where her fringe was longer. Dark kohl around her pale eyes, matching the black, sleeveless dress she wore which wrapped up around her throat and accentuated her long, slim physique. At her right wrist she wore the Piaget diamond bracelet he had bought her on a whim the year before when they had been holed up in Paris for two months while a deal had gone through.

He was more than aware of the long, black gloves she was wearing, which expertly covered the bruise that was surely on her right forearm. He sniffed and took his watch from his pocket, slipping it onto his wrist and closing the clasp.

“If you do not wish to come then...” he started.

“I do.”

Le Chiffre nodded, even as he tried his best to gauge her mood. She was a fickle creature. He knew because he was also fickle. It took one to know one.

“Can I count on you tonight?” he asked.

“You can always count on me,” she said, smiling tightly as she finally turned to look at him, “ _darling_.”

The car seemed cramped, what with all their baggage taking up the space. He reached out and took her hand. She offered no resistance as he kissed it lightly, the soft silk of the glove cool against his lips. They drove the rest of the route in silence.

* * *

 

One by one they filtered in, as if refusing to arrive in pairs. Le Chiffre stood in the sale-privee, roped off and well guarded by two sturdy casino security and a metal detector, and greeted them.

Mendel had been there for half an hour before he arrived, and Le Chiffre had as little to do with him as he could in case he felt the need to either punch him or drink heavily in order to ignore him.

The first player to arrive was Gallardo, an Argentinean billionaire whose empire was based in cocaine and legitimate stock trading respectively. Futuku the software magnate came next, sombre faced, his grey hair pulled back into a ponytail. Infante, the deposed African dictator whose face looked like a ripe plum, gave him a wet, clammy handshake; Le Chiffre had been forced to find a napkin at the bar. Then an American with a well trimmed beard, Wolpert, who gave him a firm handshake and yet his eyes were that of a predators. A Russian, Kaminofsky, then the Italian media mogul Tomelli, then the German count, Graffner Manstein.

Then Helena Jesper who, in the flesh, could not conjure less of a threatening image. She was short, perhaps five inches shorter than he, with large doe-eyes in a love-heart shaped face. Her mousy brown hair was cut into a bob and she was a little dumpy around the middle. Truly and spectacularly ordinary.

“Why hello,” she said in a stately British accent, “you must be our host.”

“An honour, Miss Jesper.”

“Oh please, it’s Mrs,” she laughed irritatingly.

“Of course, my mistake,” he said as she extended her hand.

Le Chiffre shook her hand and made note to wash it directly after. He had an extensive knowledge of contact poisons. No matter how unassuming and confusing a picture she presented, he wouldn’t take the chance.

He checked his watch and moved to stand by the table. Bond was late. Le Chiffre liked to think Bond was being spiteful because of Le Chiffre’s own tardiness. It made him feel a little less like an utter shit, as Valenka would say. He scanned the bar and found her, looking demurely perfect perched on the central stool with a cosmopolitan in her right hand. He bracelet caught the light and sparkled elegantly. He couldn’t help but admire the picture he had made of her.

 _I’ll take you away from all of this_. It was a promise he could not keep back then, and he was certain he would fail at again. Still...

When he caught her eye she tipped her head and lifted her chin sharply, indicating behind him.

There was a certain sense to style and elegance that gave away motive. Le Chiffre had his own down to an art; intimidating and yet significant. Enough for silent admiration, or whispered behind hands to others, but standoffish enough not to garner direct comments. When he turned at Valenka’s provocation to find Bond walking into the room, twenty minutes late, it was to discover Bond’s angle on dress sense.

James Bond seemed to have found a tuxedo that made you forget how late he was; or even that he was late at all. It fit in all the right places, making it impossible to resist running his eyes over the starkly defined lines of his powerful build as Bond handed over his watch to the security guard and walked through the metal detector. The way the dinner jacket accentuated his broad shoulders and cut beautifully down the front of his chest, and the just visible trimmed in section at the small of his back which led the eye tantalisingly close to...

 _Remember the play_ , he told himself as he walked over to meet Bond, while the man slipped his watch back into his wrist, _or no amount of gandering will stop the bullet in your back._ He had to act as if they had never met, which he was sure would be easy enough.

He had to play as if he had no future to savour if he lost. As if he needed the money survive. As if he was hanging from the end of a noose with only his foot balanced on the tipping chair to keep him from dying a slow, torturous death.

God he needed a drink.

“Good evening, you must be Mr. Bliss’ replacement,” he said, lifting up to shake hands; James, showing no ill effects of their drinking session the day before, squeezed appropriately hard, prompting Le Chiffre to dig in, “though is it Beech or Bond? I must admit I’m a little confused.”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that, would we?” Bond smiled.

Le Chiffre knew he should be angry, or worried, or perhaps even amused. Though he found it difficult to figure out which emotion Bond had elicited when he was trying his best not to glimpse at just how wonderful his arse surely looked in those trousers as he walked towards the bar. Instead he waited for an appropriate few moments before following him towards the bar and taking his place beside Valenka. She handed him his customary sparkling Perrier and he took a sip, savouring the bitter fizz.

Vaguely, as Mendel explained how the password system worked, he wondered where the delightfully astringent Ms Lynd was this evening.

“Six letters or more,” Mendel told them as he offered the encrypter to each of them.

One by one they put in their passwords. His mind wandered. When it was eventually his turn, he blanked. His finger hesitated over the keypad. Beside him he saw Herr Mendel tip his head curiously, as he always did when something interested him.

Much as his mother had, when she was sad or tired, or both. Suddenly it was impossible to think of anything else. She had been on his mind recently, so much so that it worried his conscience. _Couldn’t save her, could you?_ He bit at the inside of his lip and punched in the keys with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

When they finally sat down to play, he couldn’t get her name from his head.

 _Dardana_.

“Gentlemen, and lady of course,” Mendel was saying, hands clasped, “When I return, one of you will be the winner of a considerable fortune. Good luck.”

Each of the players around the table nodded to his encouragement. Le Chiffre took a hit from his inhaler and felt his eyes glaze momentarily. He blinked away the sheen of memories there and looked up to find Bond across from him.

Just another parcel of his life he needed to ignore. _How thematically appropriate_ , he thought as he lined up his chips perfectly with the line around the green felt table. The dealer began to distribute cards with silky movements, single cards falling in front of each of them. He received a flat faced Jack of hearts. Bond a Queen of spades.

“It is Mister Bond,” the dealer stated; Le Chiffre caught James’s eye and held it, “Monsieur Gallardo, grande persienne, signor Tomelli, petite persienne. That is to say, a big blind of ten thousand dollars, a little blind of five.”

The cards flew out, caught in waiting fingers. He examined them, _a pair of twos_ , _nothing special_ , before putting them back to the table. Bond wasn’t looking at his cards; he was examining the others at the table, one by one. For a moment he wondered what Bond saw.

Le Chiffre saw fresh faces which would surely devolve over time, giving away tells, losing to badly planned odds and reckless bets. He would monitor them as discretely as he could, but for _the play_...he must focus on Bond if it was to be believable.

Fukutu bet Twenty thousand. Infante conceded and put in the same. Le Chiffre nodded and slid in his chips, betraying nothing more than his acquiescence. When it came to Bond the man lifted his cards to check them, then put them down with no visible change.

“Twenty thousand,” Bond said, throwing it in as the three others to his right folded.

Tomelli threw his cards away, while Jesper, overly politely, folded. He kept her in his peripheral vision, trying to watch her in case she watched him. When the dealer laid down the flop all other’s eyes were on the community cards, while Bond’s were on the player’s reactions. Le Chiffre enjoyed the range of reactions on Bond’s face as he watched the others; intrigue, a slight narrowing of the eyes, disinterest, that almost smile, then...

...He looked suddenly straight at him. Le Chiffre did not flinch in the catch. Bond smirked infuriatingly. There was no need to force himself not to react; Le Chiffre had a poker face second to none. Finally he looked at the flop: three hearts, nine, eight and five. Well that was disappointing. It was terribly stacked against him; the odds of flopping a full house were 23 to 1. Nasty statistics. Still, the game was fresh and a little recklessness would bring out some interesting reactions, he was sure.

And also because Bond deserved to be put through his paces for being so bloody smug. He watched for the other’s reactions, until it came back to him, checked all the way, and he raised,

“Fifty thousand.”

There was a visible reaction to that, and a partly audible one from the bar. _What is this_ , he thought in irritation, _a pantomime?_ His life was on the line here and this crowd were only there for infantile kicks. The thought made him take a slightly longer breath than normal. Bond was watching him as he pushed his fifty thousand into the middle, matching the raise.

Gallardo and Infante threw away their cards, looking disappointed. He filed away their features for later. The dealer laid down the next community card, but Le Chiffre found himself once more looking at Bond. The man was staring at him, straight faced, yet there was sheer determination there, just under the well guarded wall. _Staring at me won’t change anything_ , he tried to say with his eyes alone. It did not work. James continued to stare.

When Le Chiffre finally managed to look down it was to find a nine of clubs staring back at him. _Useless_ , he thought as the odds of gaining a full house dropped significantly. He leaned against the table, index finger pressed against the side of his face while his thumb pushed up beneath his lower lip and his middle rested against his mouth. It was necessary to stop the cursed twitch at his left eye.

Bond was checking his card, though Le Chiffre could see that he wasn’t truly paying attention to it. _What is he doing?_ He wondered in annoyance. _Is he wondering if I have the other nines?_ He thought, _Why else would I be playing so strongly? No one would bet_...

“One hundred thousand,” Le Chiffre said.

... _on a pair of twos in this hand_. Still, it got the reaction he wanted. Only not from the person he found he had wanted it from. He had stopped watching the others, and now the man across from him had become the one he was trying to crack.

Only Bond had been distracted from his unexpected raise by something behind him. Le Chiffre frowned marginally, following Bond’s gaze to his left to find the absent Ms Lynd finally joining them.

He would admit, the dress was a wonderful choice; the pale plum was stark against her white skin and brought out her dark hair. She looked stunning, even as she walked up to James, leaned down and kissed him. He was glad that his poker face was in play or he was sure he would have given her an undesirable stare. _For heaven’s sakes calm yourself_ , he thought distractedly, even as all he could wonder was, _what is she saying to him?_

“Good luck, darling,” she said to James in a believable facsimile of affection.

 _Darling_. He wondered how many faces they all wore. He knew he had adopted more than one to survive. How many was she wearing, he wondered as Ms Lynd walked to the bar, trailing the eyes of most of the men at the table with her. She stood by Mathis, James’s contact here in Montenegro, and they whispered together while Bond finally pushed his one hundred thousand into the pot.

Le Chiffre wasn’t sure he could concentrate on everything at once, Bond was proving a difficult puzzle. _Not that you should care to solve it_. He knew it was dangerous but there was something compelling in the way he acted, the way he played the table and not just the cards.

The ‘river’ was dealt. Le Chiffre refused to give away his relief at seeing the two of hearts. _You’re not supposed to be winning_ , he reminded himself. Still, it was difficult not to do so. He was hard wired to win at all costs. He was sure he could bring that into his _character_ somehow.

“Two hundred thousand.”

Now that was the sort of stir he liked to cause in a room. Even if Bond one upped him seconds later,

“Call,” he said.

It had been a long time since it had happened, but even Le Chiffre would admit he faltered. He had not expected that. Could Bond have the other pair of nines that were still in the wild? If so it would explain a lot.

His irritation spiked. To lose his first hand to Bond just seemed too much like dramatic irony.

“Monsieur,” the dealer said politely to him, “you have been called.”

He would remember not to tip the man later. Right now he was too busy trying to be calm in the face of bad odds. He laid down his cards with as much carelessness as he could muster.

“A full house to Monsieur Le Chiffre,” the dealer said before turning to James, “Mr Bond?”

The last thing he expected was a shake of the head and Bond’s cards thrown with little care to the dealer. Murmurs abounded in the small room as Bond folded at the last hurdle. It was difficult not to feel a flare of triumph at the familiar taste of victory. _Know when you have been beaten,_ he thought. Yet when he looked up it was to find Bond watching him arrogantly.

 _Played_ , was all he could think, _and stripped._ As he raked in his chips Le Chiffre saw the trap Bond had lured him into, forcing him to show his hand even as he won. _But you only won on the last card_. Now all the others knew what he was capable of. It was bad enough, he thought, that it was necessary to show everyone how desperate he was, but there was something niggling in the fact that Bond knew.

Le Chiffre eyed him coldly as he piled his chips in careful stacks. _Just the beginning_ , he thought as Bond ordered himself a drink, _and the game isn’t over yet._

In truth he wasn’t sure the true game had even started yet, he thought as he watched Helena Jesper out the corner of his eye, though he was sure he’d know when it did.


	7. Helen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed and left kudos, it is very much appreciated! I hope a little excitement will spice things up a bit...

“Gentlemen, we have been playing for almost one hour. If there are no objections, we shall take a two hour dinner break.”

The bubble in the room burst as the words hit the air. Reality settled back in like a bad smell. At the table, Le Chiffre licked his lips and looked down.

A still respectable, but obviously depleted, stacks of chips and cards sat before him. Not _losing_ , he wouldn’t say losing; disappointing, that was closer to the mark. Disappointing to know that he was capable of being distracted to the point of flubbing simple calculations, or going for bigger risks not worth the threat of loss.

 _You’re supposed to be losing_ , he reminded himself. It was as good as telling himself he was supposed to walk across the hot coals. Sometimes even Le Chiffre found it difficult to put survival before his ego. Still, he was reminded of the bullet with his name on it every time he caught sight of Miss Jesper in his peripheral vision. It was sobering enough to remind him of his situation.

Yet still...he was curious. Dare he even think the word: _curious_. More curious, as the game progressed like some sort of dangerous dance, about the man across from him than the cards in his hands. About someone so arrogantly conceited in regards to his own ability and position that it rendered him almost insufferable. Cocky and self-possessed and yet capable of flaring to anger in a single moment, or being coldly calculating the next. A man with just as many masks as he wore himself, and yet seemingly unaware of the fact.

A man whose face he felt he was yet to actually see. Bond was certainly an intriguing beast, if nothing else.

 _And what else was there?_ he thought to himself. Nothing; that should have been his answer. It would have made things far less complex if it could have been right.

While the players stood from their seats and Le Chiffre inspected the nails on his right hand, keeping Bond in his peripheral, he felt a hand on his right shoulder. Turning revealed Kratt, who leaned in and spoke five soft words.

“Valenka is asking for you.”

Looking to the bar revealed she was missing from her spot on the central stool. Another jab at his conscience; he hadn’t even noticed her leave. Without another word or another thought he stood and followed his second in command, forcing himself to focus on the situation at hand. He couldn’t allow himself to be as complacent as Bond; he had far more to lose than just money.

“Dammit,” he muttered as he put his hand in his trouser pocket at the bottom of the stairs; empty. Kratt stopped, turning back to him, “don’t wait for me. I need you to keep an eye on Mathis. This isn’t the time to be letting the weasel’s run the show.”

As a man who knows his place does, Kratt nodded dutifully and walked off towards the bar after Mathis. Bond’s little contact had been a prime suspect for foul play as soon as Le Chiffre had laid eyes on him. Rene Mathis seemed a man, yet slithered like a snake, and Le Chiffre didn’t have the time, patience or luxury of trusting him the way Bond seemingly did.

When Le Chiffre returned to the table to retrieve his inhaler, he was forced to pass Bond and his compatriot Ms Lynd muttering intimately.

 _Well_ , he thought dryly as he grabbed the small silver device from the green felt and left without another glance, _at least someone’s having a good time_. He was just beginning to wonder, as he realised he had also lost track of the delightful Miss Jesper, why that someone was never him.

When greeted with no Valenka in the lobby, or the bar, a rather peeved Le Chiffre turned to the elevators and allowed a bellhop to call it for him. They had rented the penthouse suite at the Casino Royale, to save the journey every night back to the rather more isolated and luxurious hotel in the hills.

The ride to the top floor was quiet and extrospective. The Casino Royale had the look and feel of a dowdy dowager, trussed up in yellowed pearls and faded furs, sitting at a bar end somewhere in a far more expensive hotel, trying to catch the eye of the young men striding about with martinis in their hands. There was an air of old money and desperation within its walls. As he stepped out of the elevator it creaked slightly. There was a hole in the wallpaper by the fitted light switch, enough to be noticeable but not enough to cause complaint.

Complacency. That was what seemed to surround him. Complacency for tradition, enough to stifle innovation and keep the modern world from invading within. Le Chiffre knew, as he turned his key in the lock, that as much as he despised it, he could relate to it.

Complacency. His life had become complacency. He had been at the top, the alpha, untouchable, powerful, rich beyond what he could have believed as a penniless teenager on the streets of Tirana, with the authority over life and death and taxes alike. He had money to keep men loyal, and to bring men to his bed, to induce fear and respect. He was clever and all knowing and could do what he wished on a whim to make that figure rise and rise while others fell around him.

But not enough money to stop a knife in his back. Or a bullet. Or those around him being seduced by what he had, turning on him just for the lure of a larger pay check. It seemed a trite lesson, he thought bitterly as he stood by the unlocked door with his hand on the handle; money was the soft blanket he had wrapped himself in, and the high throne he had built for himself.

Complacency, on the other hand, was the viper that money had lured to him, the one he had ignored until it sank its teeth into his neck and let the slow poison begin to take effect.

There was a chill in the air when he entered the room, the only light being the table lamp. He could see Valenka on the balcony, the floor length, muslin curtains shivered in the breeze. _Another moment of complacency thrown into his face,_ he thought. Another trophy in his collection, another part of his systematic world. _There should be more_ , he thought, _but life doesn’t operate by the laws of fairness in love and war._

Le Chiffre dumped his jacket onto the armchair by the coffee table, pushing past the opaque material and sighing before he asked in a tired voice which was not for show,

“What is it? What’s so damn important?”

The kiss was the last thing he’d expected. A slap, yes. Being spat at in the face? Yes. Being pushed off of the balcony? Yes. A kiss? No. Which is why, when she said the two seemingly incongruous words...

“I’m sorry.”

...he should have realised the warning before it was even said. He should have realised that, deep down, the forgiveness he craved from her, the need for her to know that he cared for her even if he could never love her the way she needed him to, the want to give her the life she deserved, _the proxy she offered for the mother he couldn’t save_...none of it mattered when you had a garrotte slipped around your throat and pulled tight.

Panic. The wire drew tight and pulled back. He followed without being able to fight it. Trip. His feet stumbled causing the wire to slice through the skin as he was hauled upright. Breathe. Struggling to pull in air as he choked, the pain flaring like white hot fire as the blood ran down to soak into the collar of his shirt and his hands clawed at his throat without thought for the futility.

Loud and abrasive and furious, a voice accompanied the swift tug on the wire, pulling him flush against the body behind him, “Where is my _money_!?”

And in a moment he knew it. _The viper had a voice, and it chose to speak as..._ the insolent warlord, Obano. It was Obano’s voice. Le Chiffre knew it, even as he panicked. He never forgot a _cope muti_.

From the restricted angle, constricted and contained, he could not see him. All he could see was Valenka before him. Her mascara was running from her right eye as she stared at him, held tight by a man with skin like ebony, his white eyes cruelly blank as he held the machete to her throat. He could see she was shaking.

“Yo..” he choked as he tried to speak, “your m-money is...safe.”

He wouldn’t have believed there was room to pull the garrotte tighter without killing him outright; apparently there was. He closed his eyes involuntarily and felt his knees shake, trying to give way even as he fought to stay standing. The blood was rushing to his face, leaving him light headed as he choked in air and bore the pain.

“All... _all_ of it,” he squeezed out, “tomorrow, you’ll have...all of it!”

It was amazing what one would promise when their life was on the line. He should have been ecstatic with being thrown to the floor like he was, but his body was alive with the thought that a blade would finish the job where the wire had failed. He imagined it, slipping in next to his jugular and the blood pumping out in visceral gouts, just as he had done in Paris to the dirty little rat he’d hired. Imagining it with vivid detail, even as he gasped and pulled in rasping breaths to fill his desperate lungs.

“I would take your hand as a reminder,” Obano was saying as Le Chiffre floundered on the carpet, looking up at Obano with the fear of the unexpected; the man stood above him in his tux, utterly out of place, like a nightmare made real. He smiled down at Le Chiffre with a malicious grin, “but you need it to play cards.”

“I said I’ll...” Le Chiffre stopped as his throat constricted, forcing a rough cough while Obano held out his hand to his flunky, taking the machete with hypocritical delicacy.

 _An eye for an eye_ , was all he could think as he struggled to his knees, _a tooth for a tooth_. _A hand for a dollar._ He watched as Obano held the machete out like a gavel before he turned away towards Valenka. Her eyes widened, mouth trembling as reality sank in.

“Hold out your arm,” he said to her.

“No,” she was whispering out, “no, please.”

“I said I’ll get you the money!” Le Chiffre ground out desperately.

“Hold out your arm, my beauty,” Obano said with all the charm of a snake, ignoring Le Chiffre entirely, “or I will take your head.”

“No,” Valenka pleaded, the henchman holding her pulled at her arm as she resisted, “ _no please_.”

The scream from her lips as her arm was pulled down straight was piercing. _Enough to remember the sound as if it were the same sight before him from his memories_ , as he felt the blood rush in his ears while Obano raised the vicious sword. _His mother weeping on the floor, his father above her with his arm raised again and again_. His belongings, his way of life, his very existence reduced to being threatened and tortured by his enemies, fearing death at every turn, fearing for the life of those closest to him. _I’ll take you away from this mother, I swear_. The adrenaline, fight or flight, the need, the want, the only chance he would ever have to...

Physical strength had never been his strong suit. He did not stand and rush the man who looked as if he could break him like a twig because, beneath his panic and hatred, he was still calculating the odds. _Le Chiffre never left things to chance_. Instead he pulled his leg up fiercely and kicked at the back of Obano’s right knee. It was sharply satisfying to watch the man fall, surprised and shocked, to the floor with the machete still gripped in his right hand. He landed with a heavy thump as the man holding Valenka pushed her violently aside.

Le Chiffre did not look to see where she fell as he lunged for the machete in Obano’s grip and wrestled with the man on the floor, teeth bared. When a heavy kick landed against his ribs he held on because to let go was to give in to the inevitable. Obano snarled beneath him and tried to roll, jabbing his elbow towards Le Chiffre’s face. Le Chiffre pulled back violently, just as he managed to get a grip on the machete, using his momentum to sit up and...

And then there were was an arm around his middle, and another around his throat and he was dragged backwards as he flailed and Valenka screamed. The flunky was holding him, snarling something unintelligible into his ear, hot with spit and spite while Obano stood  up, eyes blazing. Le Chiffre struggled vainly, pulling and pushing, but the man behind him was immovable. The arms around him only tightened while Obano brushed down his suit. The panic only heightened.

“You know,” Obano said with hidden viciousness, “I knew you were a gambler from the moment we spoke. Guess I should have gone with my gut. No trustworthy man makes jokes about God, who does not already believe he _is_ God himself.”

He wanted to say something. There must be something he could say to make this stop. To get out. As Obano closed in, machete still tight in his grip, Le Chiffre’s mind raced. He needed to get out. Another step closer. Get out. Close enough to see the blood shot veins in the white’s of Obano’s eyes. No way out.

“I had planned on leaving you with fear, enough to make this simple,” Obano said, close enough to feel his breath against his cheek.

The first punch was the worst because he hadn’t been expecting it. Obano’s solid fist rammed into his already aching stomach forcing him to cough and splutter in pain as he tried to curl in on himself but couldn’t. The second, crushing into his left kidney, was at least unsurprising. The third was just overkill, Le Chiffre thought as he wheezed, eyes cringed closed in pain, hand tugging fruitlessly at the arm around his neck.

“Fear of knowing what will happen if you do not win, but it seems fear is not something you are capable of understanding. Instead,” Obano said grimly and placed the tip of the machete against Le Chiffre’s zipper, “we will have to get creative aboutwhat we can remove as a reminder without compromising your poker playing skills, won’t we Mr Le Ch..?”

Wrong. Le Chiffre knew Obano was wrong, as he listened to the sound of the door opening. Not that Obano would ever know it for himself, but that didn’t matter. Le Chiffre understood fear. Fear was something he had always understood very well.

As the silent bullet erupted through the side of Obano’s skull, Le Chiffre thought that now he simply understood the limits of his fear a little better. The boundaries of that fear, and how far he could take it. The blood splattered across his face proved that. When he was pulled around to face the doorway roughly, the man holding him spouting threats in broken English, he was faced with a gun. The fear stayed, ever present, but understood. As the gun fired without sound and the man behind him crumpled in a spray of blood and brain, pulling at Le Chiffre with lifeless hands as he fell to the floor dead, he was simply left with the truth.

That control was the only lifeline he had left. Control over complacency and control over fear. Le Chiffre stood amidst the bodies and the swiftly pooling blood, and looked up at his rescuer as he rubbed at his badly abused throat, wheezing uncontrollably. As Bond lowered his gun and began swiftly unscrewing the silencer in a practiced motion, Le Chiffre scrabbled for his inhaler and took two swift pulls of the vapour. As his lungs relaxed from their spasms, he found the breath to speak.

“Took your fucking time,” he ground out, for lack of anything better to say, as he slumped against the wall; looking down he found Valenka trying to stand from her crouch on the floor.

“They slipped past our net, can’t be winners all the time,” Bond said, coldly efficient, as he pulled out a small phone and dialled, “Yes, Mathis? Complications. Two of them. Room...” Bond looked at him distractedly.

“One six six,” Le Chiffre said as he rolled his shoulder, assessing the damage of the rough handling.

“One six six,” Bond repeated into the phone, “need it cleaned up. Give us fifteen minutes,” the phone was pocketed as Bond stepped over Obano, gun slid into his waistband and silencer in his trouser pocket.

“Your neck,” Le Chiffre heard Valenka say; when he turned to her she was standing hunched by his side, looking at him with a blank stare, “you’re bleeding.”

Afterwards, he wouldn’t be entirely sure why he did it, but at the time he thought it could have been the familiar sting of betrayal that made him slap her hand away as she reached up to touch the wound. She did not react, other than to blink once. Her dress slipped from one shoulder as she pushed against the wall and walked away towards the bathroom. Le Chiffre watched her go, unable to twist himself out of his spite, of the life he’d decided for them. There was nothing left.

“Hey,” he heard Bond say sharply, as if he’d been forced to repeat himself; Le Chiffre turned to him and blinked, “I said you need to get that seen to and change your shirt. I want this kept quiet, the last thing I need is this tournament cancelled before the big fish even come out to play.”

“Oh, of course,” Le Chiffre said blankly, pushing up from the wall to walk to the water jug by the mirror, “heaven forbid.”

“Just get straightened up and be back downstairs in...”

Falling wasn’t surprising. He’d known it was coming, from the weakness in his knees and the light-headedness. It was more surprising to feel Bond’s hands stopping him from hitting the ground, as his knees buckled and his head spun. Once Le Chiffre was lowered to the ground slowly, he sat back against the sofa behind him and watched Bond. First the immaculate agent emptied the fruit bowl on the table to get at the cloth lining it, before wetting it from the jug. Then he handed it to Le Chiffre, who dropped it with fumbling fingers.

 _What a state to be in_ , he thought with a soft, desperate laugh, _can’t even control your own hands. Where would you be if that door hadn’t opened? Such a fool. Where would you be? A fool, a fool._

“Christ’s sake,” Bond muttered in irritation, “do exactly as I say and don’t bloody move, or I’ll be tempted to finish the job they started.”

It was even more surprising than being caught and helped, to be tended to. Bond was silent as he efficiently cleaned the slowly crusting blood from Le Chiffre’s neck. It was an oddly dichotomous moment: calm but alive with unresolved tension. He kept his eyes closed. It seemed to help.

Le Chiffre wondered what had been worse; being lured into this by someone he trusted, or how close he had come to being irrevocably maimed. Perhaps neither. He lifted his right hand and squinted his eyes open; he watched with another laugh as his hand shook involuntarily. _Control, that’s what you want, isn’t that right? What control do you have?_

A bandage was found in the first aid kit in a cupboard above the mini-bar. It was unwound with strict movements, like an irritated teacher might do. Le Chiffre found himself wondering how many times Bond had done this for another, or even for himself. The last time someone had tended to him he had been a child. A fever, with a nurse by his side as his parents waited anxiously outside.

Bond kept his eyes on his hands as he said,

“Sit forward.”

“I can do this myself.”

“I said do as I bloody tell you. Unless you want to ruin another shirt.”

He did as he was told. Bond knelt on one knee, staying hunkered down on the other, as he leaned in and wrapped the bandage once, twice, three times. It might have been six in the end, he wasn’t paying attention. The circular movement of Bond’s hands was rhythmically soothing. Le Chiffre closed his eyes, only to open them again a moment later.

“How did you know?”

“What?” Bond asked.

“How did you know,” Le Chiffre repeated as he waved his hand vaguely towards the dead men to his left, cooling on the carpet.

“Bugged your inhaler,” Bond said without compunction.

“Bugged,” Le Chiffre shook his head, “of course.”

“Expecting me to take you at your word?”

“Oh, not at all, of course not. You really are not capable of trusting anyone, are you?”

“I advise against it, as a rule.”

“Yet you trust Mathis,” Le Chiffre shrugged as Bond tied off the bandage and tucked it in.

“Mathis hasn’t tried to profit from the large scale misery of others, or blow up any major airports,” Bond said with a cheerless smirk, “he already has a few points over you.”

“And the delightful Ms Lynd, her too it seems.”

“You know, it’s not necessary for you to talk while I do this. Where do you keep your shirts?”

“Wardrobe, surprisingly.”

“Don’t get cute.”

The aching in his abdomen from the well placed kick and punches, as well as the wrenching pain in his shoulder and his back, became apparent as he struggled out of his dress shirt and into the new one. Valenka had still not emerged from the bathroom. When he tried the door he found it locked. There was no use in knocking, he knew.

“Maybe try and be a little more circumspect, next time?” Bond said as he headed for the door, waving in the general direction of the dead men lying crumpled in their own bodily fluids upon the laminate flooring.

“Coming from a man who can’t even remain under his own alias? I’ll take it with, as you British say, a pinch of salt.”

“Don’t question my methods,” Bond replied tightly, “I don’t answer to you.”

“No, you don’t. But if you did I’m sure this would all be going far more smoothly than it is,” Le Chiffre said bitterly, “as it is I am forced to labour under you protection.”

“If you’d rather I hadn’t bothered stopping whatever inventive way they would have come up with,” Bond said lazily, trailing his eyes down Le Chiffre’s body until the other man frowned in displeasure, “then I’m sure it can be rearranged.”

“How crass. I should have come to expect it, I suppose.”

“As much as I’ve come to expect your fucking incompetence.”

And Le Chiffre did the last thing either of them seemed to be expecting; he laughed. It was long and low, enough to show teeth. Bond was watching him with confused caution, even as Le Chiffre shook his head and rubbed at his eyes.

“Sometimes...” he trailed off before sniffing and licking his lips, “...sometimes it’s like looking into a mirror.”

“What?” Bond asked in annoyance, but the sharpness to his words was half-hearted.

“You’re an easy man to see, Mr Bond, though I think only to those who know what to look for.”

“And you think you know, I’ll take it?”

 “I don’t need to think, I _do_. You’re arrogant, you’re reckless, you’re quick tempered, you’re aloof, and most of all,” Le Chiffre looked him straight in the eyes, “you are clearly dispossessed.”

A moment considered forming in the stillness of the room. When Bond spoke, Le Chiffre was not sure if the moment had passed or not.

“Oh?” the word was said as a clear challenge for an explanation.

“Well you’re arrogant, reckless, quick tempered and aloof,” Le Chiffre didn’t bother to hide his wince as he pulled himself up, holding his middle protectively, “those dispossessed with their role in life normally are.”

“You sound like someone who’d know,” Bond replied tonelessly.

“Perhaps.”

“Conscience getting the better of you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. For a moment I thought I was going to bring up my dinner.”

“And here I thought you hadn’t had time for dinner,” Le Chiffre asked, cocking his head as he fiddled with his cufflinks.

“Tempted to foot another bill, are you?” Bond said with a raised brow.

“I am sure the charming Ms Lynd would have something to say about that.”

“Oh, she’s good at finding reasons to call me a moron,” James pinched at the bridge of his nose, scrunching up his face before relaxing with a sigh, “I don’t need your help.”

“Then perhaps you can accept my inconvenience instead?”

“You know, it’s been a while since I was invited to dinner over a corpse,” Bond said with an airy tone, yet serious eyes.

“Maybe you’ve not been speaking to the right people.”

“Maybe,” Bond said, eyes still alight with intrigue as he turned to leave; the door was almost closed behind him when he stopped to add, “I know where to pick you up. I’ll drive. And try not to win any more hands at the table. You’re making my job harder than it needs to be.”

Bond left as the overly efficient clean-up crew arrived, and Le Chiffre was forced to accept that they were both capable of being utterly monstrous, utterly selfish and utterly unpredictable.

And that perhaps having your worst qualities in common with someone else was the easiest way to cope. He sat on the sofa and rested his head back against the cool material, ignoring the world around him for as long as he could afford to.

* * *

 

She wouldn’t say she’d been blessed, but it had been exactly what she’d dreamed of for the long years since her father descended into depravity and her life became a mindless horror show. Days trying to hide from reality, and nights trying to hide in the fantasies in her mind. Nothing was simple, it could never be degraded to _simple_ , but predictable. Predictably vile.

She was left like a cut out, a scrap on the floor, watching, and waiting.

And then freedom had come to rescue her, even if that freedom turned out to be nothing more than new, gilded chains. Le Chiffre was bad tempered, cruel and heartless at times, but he could be fair, and sometimes even kind. Because they were both wounded animals, licking their wounds, and even if they could never be what she needed them to be, at least they were together in their misery. So it had been enough to believe that, even though he had won her in a game of poker, that she had won him just as much as he had her.

That Valenka Konnikov had found the life she deserved rather than the life she had been subjected to.

Now, as she leaned against the bathroom door in their bloodied room on the top floor of the Casino Royale, her ear pressed to the wood to hear the voices from beyond, her body still shaking with the memory of the sharp blade pressed against her skin and the memory of Le Chiffre’s cold eyes as he pushed her away, she listened as her control of her world slipped away while the British agent played coy and Le Chiffre fell for it like an eager fool.

An eager, pitiable fool.

Valenka watched her hands curl into fists and smiled as a tear dripped from her chin.


	8. Penelope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience, I hope the wait for the new chapter was worth it.

 

It is difficult to be truthful. Truth encompasses many things which, in the single act of speaking a truth, one doesn’t normally think about. Another person’s feelings, for instance. Your status may become nothing but the mud on the ground. Your freedom could be compromised.

You could put others in danger. You could get other people killed. Just for the sake of a few words.

_‘I don’t even know anyone named Engjell!’_

Words said in his own voice, a long time ago now. A day he could remember well simply because everything had changed. In one day he was forced to realise how much the truth could transform the world around him and force him to see it for the farce it truly was.

Living in ignorance was spuriously easy, and living in a world where you ignored the tragedy around you so that you didn’t have to deal with it was not as difficult as it should be. Perhaps perversely so.

He remembered her dress was blue. Not baby blue, or navy. Blue like a soft sky, lit with haze rising from the estuary when the sun grew too hot. And his father had been dressed in a charcoal smoking jacket, even though the heat in the house was insufferable. It had been two in the afternoon and he was practicing at the upright piano in the lounge, _because he’d been made to rather than wanted to_. It was hot and it was stuffy and the notes irritated him.

_It had been nearly a year to the day since he’d returned from boarding school and known that nothing could be the same as had been before. Now his house was full of awkward silences and people who did not care that they ignored each other._

He had longed to go down to the bay, to the secluded beach, and swim in the water. And when his father had stormed into the room as Jean’s fingers trotted clumsily over the keys, he hadn’t been paying attention.

Hadn’t been paying attention because he’d forgotten that he was supposed to care.

_‘Did you see him?’ he was asked._

_‘See who papa?’_

_‘Him. He was here yesterday, wasn’t he?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘If you’re lying to me Jean...’_

_‘I didn’t see anyone.’_

_‘You interrupt me, without hearing the rest. Perhaps you don’t care that she’s tearing this family apart. You’re naive, child and your mother knows it.’_

_‘I’m not a child...’_

_A hand at his far shoulder, roughly turning him to face the man whom he resembled so closely in features, yet could not be more distant from in personality. The heat itched at him and he’d wanted to swat the hand away, only didn’t dare._

_‘I’m practicing,’ he had bit out._

_‘Damn your fiddling with that cursed thing,’ his father hissed out._

_‘Leave me alone.’_

_‘Tell me the truth! Did you see him?’_

_‘No! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t even know anyone named Engjell!’_

_‘So,’ his father’s eyes were as stones, ‘a name, at last.’_

A foolish truth, in the shape of a lie. Later that day his father had confronted his mother and the rest of the half spilled truth had gushed out across the floors, staining everything it touched. At seventeen he hadn’t known what to think of his mother’s affair. Truthfully, he couldn’t blame her. Sometimes he’d liked to wonder what it would be like to have another life like she did, with different people in it.

He’d heard them fight, even through his hands planted firmly over his ears. And he’d seen her, as he crept to her room with a want to go inside, hold her, tell her to please stop crying.

His father would never send her away like he’d threatened. He’d never forbid her from seeing her son again. They were just words. That was what his reality told him; _everything would be fine if we just keep pretending._

When he had stood on the grass the next day, staring up at the tree as she swayed there, dead face hidden by a fall of curls, he had known. And when his father had rushed out, eyes wide with shock, and tried to pull him away, send him inside... he remembered the look he had given him. Pure and unfiltered by fear of repercussion or politeness or deference or respect.

The truth. It had been the truth that sat in his eyes that day. Perhaps, Le Chiffre had sometimes pondered, perhaps his father had known he was going to die even before he saw his son standing over him with the knife. Perhaps, once the facade had crumbled, even his father could not deny the truth beneath their well crafted artifice. That his son detested him, and had loved his mother more than anything in the world. That no matter how much money or power or status someone held, they bled just like any other. That someone’s reality could not always be the truth, and that when the truth ruptured it broke through illusions like a dagger against flesh.

Or perhaps his father had just been a coward, but it was regardless now. Now that the truth was free, and its consequences laid bare.

And Le Chiffre never forgot what it meant to have no control over the truth.

* * *

 

“Kristoff has also been confirmed,” Kratt said.

The glow of the artificial light against his face seemed to depersonalise the statement. Le Chiffre would have liked to think it didn’t affect him, hearing of further culling with familiar names, yet it did. It did.

“Then that’s the full Northern Cell wiped out,” he said as he obsessively checked his watch, just for something to do, _just for the excuse to move_ , “I don’t suppose there are reports of who was responsible?”

“None.”

“Then I suppose that’s as good as a written confession,” he stopped his hand half way risen, his wrist partially turned, and smiled. He knew the time to the hour and the minute; he could guess the seconds. A puff of breath was all he would allow himself of the laugh he was suppressing.

The hideous, unhealthy laugh.

Instead he asked, “Is everything set?” while he stared at the monitor.

“Yes Le Chiffre,” Kratt answered.

“And the equipment is secure? There can be no breaks in the chain.”

Standing in the hotel room, even with its banks of electronics blinking and pouring forth a heat which itched at his skin, was somehow bizarre. It had been a while since he’d felt secure in his company. Kratt, for all his monosyllabic answers and his constantly guarded, blank face, was familiar and trusted. For once in the past few months Le Chiffre felt that he could allow his shoulders to relax down to their correct position _below_ his neck, and even have a quiet glass of red wine on the veranda while his second in command had dealt with the particulars.

“Would you like to see the itinerary?”

“No, that will not be necessary,” Le Chiffre waved the offer away with the hand he’d been compulsively raising to check for the past fifteen minutes, “I trust it is all in order. Make sure those numbers are correct and set up the text link. The timing is imperative. And make sure the message gets through to White. I will handle the rest.”

“Right away.”

For a second, split as it was, Le Chiffre wished he had someone to offer him a useless _good luck_. Even just _break a leg_ , as he’d heard the British say. But then his game wasn’t about luck, not truly. Luck was the vein that ran though the body of poker, but the heart it fed pumped nothing but deception, observation and statistics.  In poker you played the person across from you, and kept the others in your peripheral vision.

He had always prized himself on his perception. It was simply an irritant that his perception had been lacking of late; had allowed him to almost miss the key to the puzzle. And in that time the net around him had grown tighter, and the people he knew, _then ones that made his world seem safe and familiar by their association,_ were being slowly but strictly exterminated.

Soon, he knew, there would be nowhere left to run. He only hoped that, by that point, he would no longer need to run.

“I will be downstairs for half an hour before the tournament restarts. There is someone I must talk to. If I am not back in time then delay the game.”

* * *

 

_Earlier that night..._

It had all started so innocently. Well, perhaps not innocently. Nothing was innocent about either of them, from a physical or moral standpoint. Still, innocence was perhaps a subjective term. In that sense, it had all started innocently.

The semi-hostile dinner fitted well with their cover, which Le Chiffre appreciated for the freedom it gave to say whatever he felt like saying with little to no repercussions. As such, their food had been as delightful as the company; slightly acerbic but with just enough genuine curiosity to add a certain élan. The room, Bond’s room he was sure, was also wonderfully quiet. Even if he was sure there were several bugs placed strategically around to record everything said.

And, for once, Le Chiffre found himself enjoying a conversation for the sake of conversation even if it was a thin veneer over the unutterable truth that ran beneath it.

“So, your real name must be something pretty boring to choose something so ridiculous as a cover,” Bond said as he set his cutlery neatly on his plate.

 _Just like all well trained little boys do_ , Le Chiffre thought. The strict rules of society liked to craft neat little cookie-cutter inhabitants to fit into their neat little roles in life. _Sit up straight, get a job, be an upright citizen._ As he watched Bond wipe his hands on his napkin Le Chiffre tried to assess them both from the perspective of the norm. Neither fit, truly. They’d been left with the ruins of a respectable existence. Both had surely started out on the path to obscurity, but on the way had been tainted by the extraordinary. These niceties they both still possessed seemed like remnants of a time that would never accept them if it ever knew they existed.

“To have no true name is to be utterly anonymous,” he replied, “It has its advantages.”

“Must make dodging responsibility for atrocities a breeze,” Bond said through a casual shrug, but Le Chiffre could see the revulsion behind the action.

“Actually, people having no expectations of you is my personal favourite. With you I am sure there are always expectations when your name is announced.”

“I prefer no introduction to be necessary,” Bond said with a smug smile.

“But then it also means that you must have to live up to your reputation, constantly. I can imagine that is tiring.”

“It’s not so tiring when your reputation is for putting criminals and terrorists in jail. Or in the ground,” Bond’s hard eyes never left him as he spoke.

“Such moral superiority,” Le Chiffre smiled as he quickly pouted his lips, “from a man who so casually commits murder.”

“And here I thought you’d know all about necessary evils. You wear that suit after all.”

“Offend me as much as you like, Mr Bond, but please do not malign my tailor.”

“Let me guess, he doesn’t ask questions.”

“No, he is the only one I have found in Paris who uses Thai silk. My preferences have become quite specific over the years. And while I will not lie, the traditional look is very flattering on you, it is nothing but another veil, is it not? A born and bred Oxford boy in his English cut suit with a chip on his shoulder and a gun in his hand.”

“It was Edinburgh, actually,” Bond said nonchalantly.

“Scottish? Ah, then you must have been _born_ with a chip on your shoulder.”

“Naturally,” he said with a facetious smile.

“I can sympathise. But at the very least I do not lie to myself about what I have done to secure my place in life,” Le Chiffre continued without hesitation.

“Does that help you sleep at night?”

“I may as well ask if all those vodka martinis are enough to silence the screams of all the men you’ve killed. But then we’d both be hypocrites, wouldn’t we.”

In response, Bond took a drink from his cocktail glass and held his stare. Le Chiffre continued to smile to himself and looked out of the window over the lights in the dark. The city continued to play and dance beyond the glass, oblivious to the room three floors up above the streets which held them; two people incapable of being, and yet forced to be so.

“Let’s be frank, shall we?” Le Chiffre said.

“Oh, why stop now?”

“I’m using you, and in so doing I am allowing you to use me. And in turn we are both pawns for your government.”

“And you’d know all about that, I’m sure.”

“I’d hope not,” Le Chiffre said as if he found nothing more absurd, “all for Queen and country, yes?”

Bond didn’t react. Le Chiffre could not tell if it was a thoughtful silence or a hostile one.

“That does not exactly put us in any positions of surety,” Le Chiffre continued, “but it does allow us to at least understand one another.”

“It sounds like you’re asking me to trust you,” Bond asked with a mocking incredulity.

“No, I’m merely asking you to accept our situation as unique. And that I do not dole out death and judgement in the way you seem to enjoy.”

“Oh no, I’m sure the way you enjoy it is strapped to a chair and helpless, none of that messy fighting back to deal with.”

“It’s how I enjoy most things,” Le Chiffre said against the rim of his wine glass, “strapped down and helpless.”

Bond let out a puff of air but did not look away; the intimacy of it was rather difficult to ignore, “I am not here for the blind heroics,” Le Chiffre continued.

“I’ll remember to put it in my report, you know, for the interrogation department,” Bond said.

Sighing, Le Chiffre shook his head and looked away across the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bond watching him closely, yet when he moved his eyes back to him Bond was looking elsewhere. _When did things become so complicated?_ Le Chiffre asked himself.

Perhaps it had simply been a long time since he’d dealt with anyone who he’d actually found interesting. Bond wasn’t as stupid as his arrogance implied. There was a keen intelligence there, muffled by a need to prove himself.

Or maybe he was just starved for a challenge. Still, Le Chiffre felt the need to at least try. He just didn’t take too good a look at why. Things were easier that way.

“Sometimes it is necessary simply to...” closing his eyes Le Chiffre took a moment and to imagine an ideal. _The way things had been._ It wasn’t as simple as he’d expected. Shaking his head he let out a sigh before opening his eyes once more, “but then the world catches up with us.”

“The last thing I need is a philosophical speech. Trying to fool me into thinking this isn’t all a redundant exercise? All you need to do is lose. It’s not so hard, even if it doesn’t keep up appearances.”

“It is easy to be fooled by appearance. It is why we take such care in crafting them,” he took a drink and sat up, forearms on the table.

“You talk about it as if appearances aren’t what allow us to function.”

“A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.”

“I feel like I’ve been insulted,” Bond said with a smile, a frown and a sip of his drink.

“Insults imply animosity. I feel the need to tell you this is nothing personal.”

“Something tells me there’s no avoiding that.”

Le Chiffre cocked his head and sat back in his chair, “You are a curious one, aren’t you?”

“You know, if you want to fuck I’d prefer if you just say it,” Bond stated bluntly, “I don’t do foreplay.”

The look he was given was enough to know that the heat he felt didn’t come solely from the heady wine he was drinking. Bond didn’t have the patience, it seemed. _It would be so easy_ , he thought, _and yet so utterly foolish_. Which was exactly what he was trying to avoid, _even if it would be..._

“My, my Mr Bond, you’ll make the poor surveillance operators blush. Or are your intelligence agents used to this sort of content when reviewing your conversations?”

“Maybe there’s nobody listening,” Bond said, face unreadable; Le Chiffre knew it was a lie. Even if Bond was doing his best to seem rebellious, he knew that the man still put his shoes together under the end of his bed, and placed his knife and fork together on the plate at the perfect six o’clock position. Some things were too deeply ingrained to ever falter.

 _All for Queen and country._ Sometimes there was little room left for anything else.

He replied as he stood, picking up his jacket which he’d left hanging from the back of his chair, “I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr Bond, but you’re not my type.”

“Let me guess,” Bond’s smile smug smile was back, “single?”

“Blond,” Le Chiffre replied, “when it comes to complications, I can say with indemnity that I am the lesser of the two. I am attracted to men, which is rather simple. Whereas you seem to be only attracted to something more perverse, even by societal standards.”

“And I’m sure you’re about to tell me what that is.”

“The things you cannot have. It is an ego problem, Mr Bond. You like to think you can undo anyone, manipulate others while telling yourself it is for the greater good, and yet underneath it all you just want to show how much better you are. Show how much you can hurt them without taking any of that pain in return. Kill men for your own self-fulfilment so you can be patted on the head by your superiors. Fuck disposable partners in a litany of lies and deception. That is how you keep _your_ anonymity. That is your way of having no name to trace you by. I don’t think you could tell me with a straight face,” he said as he stood by the door, “that I’m the only one in this room capable of living with atrocity.”

The door opening saved James from having to come up with an appropriate response, even if his eyes said it all: _a hunger to cover for a loss of pride with a sharp tongue, or perhaps suitable violence._ Instead, Ms Lynd was the one to rebuke. She stood in the doorway, dark eyes hard as she looked at them both.

“I do hope you’re just leaving,” she said to Le Chiffre acerbically.

“Always a pleasure Ms Lynd,” he said with a charming smile.

And then he saw it. Something that, later, he would wonder why he hadn’t noticed before now. He would question himself on whether she had always worn it and he just hadn’t been observant enough to pick up on it, or if she’d slipped up because she had not expected him to be there. Or whether Bond was too distracting, leading him astray.

He had committed the direst of sins: being blind to the bigger picture. Regardless of the whys and the wrongs, it was at that moment that Le Chiffre noticed the long, elegant necklace Vesper Lynd wore around her neck, and knew it for what it was.

* * *

 

_The present..._

She was easy to follow because she had none of the ingrained training or natural paranoia of a man like Bond. It also helped that she surely thought herself utterly secure in her role; she was meant to be here, so who would question it? In fact she sometimes actively seemed to be a spanner in the works of Bond’s mad efforts to jeopardise the mission. _Someone beyond suspicion._

So of course she was easy to find alone. And of course it was simple to follow her without being noticed. And truly it was simple to walk up behind her, press the hidden knife in his palm against her side and murmur,

“No screaming please, Ms Lynd, it would be most unbecoming.”

At first she did not respond further than stopping, stock still. They stood facing the corridor that led to the tournament, empty at this time while the contestants still drank and gambled with more of their money on the roulette tables and tried to unsuccessfully psych each other out. When she did respond it was cutting, as he’d expected it would be.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to double cross us,” she said, bringing up her handbag and making to open it casually, “your reputation must be exaggerated.”

“ _Ah_ ,” he said, stalling her movement as she tried to put her hand inside; she set her face and then forcefully shoved the bag against his chest. Le Chiffre took it with his free hand and peered inside, seeing the phone she’d surely been going for. Or perhaps something even more deadly, when he caught the gleam of a pearl handle, “I see I am not the only one with a penchant for concealed violence. Would you care to walk with me?”

“Not really, no.”

“What a shame,” pressing harder was tricky, making sure it was threatening enough without damaging the material, “I insist.”

They walked to the foyer and into the elevator, casually as a couple enjoying a holiday abroad. Le Chiffre was sure that Ms Lynd’s unhappy expression was believable in these parts, as hundreds of women were surely miserable that their partners were sorely losing at the tables. When they reached the third floor Le Chiffre hit the emergency stop button. The elevator juddered and halted. For a second the lights flickered and then came back on.

When he turned to her she was utterly unreadable, but for her obvious mask of sullenness. Arms crossed as she leaned against the other side of the elevator, she watched him carefully. The mirrored strip around the centre of the elevator shone them on for infinity. Hundreds of permutations of the one thing he’d failed to notice.

“You know, it’s really rather ingenious,” Le Chiffre said as he slipped the knife properly into his hand out of his sleeve, the long blade enough to keep her where she was as he began rifling through her handbag, “always check your blind spot,” he pulled out a lipstick and mascara, dropping them onto the floor with little care, “That’s what they teach you, isn’t it? And yet there I was, running around like a rat in a maze, seeing falsity everywhere I looked,” then came the pearl handled knife, which he pocketed easily, and the phone which he pushed to the side to find...

“And truly the best deception is made when you’re looking straight past it,” Le Chiffre said as he pulled out the necklace, tucked in a small pouch of the bag like a secret; it dangled between them, her dark eyes showing her desperation to snatch it from his hands, “isn’t that right, Ms Lynd.”

“Killing me will solve nothing,” she said brazenly.

“Kill you? Oh,” Le Chiffre laughed, shaking the necklace to make it dance in the light, “You don’t know what this is, do you?”

That she stalled gave him the answer he needed. The frown that she was clever enough to keep off of her face showed in her eyes.

“But I do,” he continued, “And I know what it means to you. And what you will be willing to do for it. Something I’m sure you wouldn’t want to let slip to your dear James.”

She watched him with a keen strength, hiding a panicked pain, “What do you want?”

“Straight to the point, I like that in a woman,” he said, making her glare deepen, “you know, perhaps there is something that will allow both of us to walk away with what we’re looking for.”

“You have no idea what I want,” she said acidly, “and I don’t really care what it is that you want, or think you know about me...”

“Do be quiet,” he interrupted, halting her, “If you would take a moment to realise your situation, perhaps we can find some mutual agreement.”

“I’m quite done taking orders from men who do not value life,” she said, making to reach for the control panel and restart the elevator.

“Is that right?” Le Chiffre asked, quickly throwing the necklace to her; she blanched and scrambled to catch it. The stare she sent him could have set fires, “I’m not so sure that’s as true as you would wish it.”

* * *

 

_James..._

As soon as he’d put the finished glass back down onto the rim of the table, he’d known his mistake. A mistake he’d only ever made once before, and had been sure then he’d never repeat.

_A bar in Cuba, with a pretty distraction on his arm while an informant he’d been tailing had spiked his drink with strychnine. That had been an interesting trip to the emergency room, wracked with convulsions and wishing his jaw would loosen so he could beg for them to dope him._

Back then he’d been young and inexperienced. Now, well...now James wasn’t sure what his excuse was.

The game had begun again, and everything had been going smoothly. Perhaps that could have been his first tip; when things went too smoothly then it was the time to open your eyes wider. But he’d been, dare he say it, relaxed in his control of the situation. And so they’d sat down at the table, and after a couple of minutes Le Chiffre had deigned to join them. It had been only after one hand he’d clocked the fact that Mathis and Vesper had yet to arrive, but didn’t think it was worth worrying about just yet.

It certainly wasn’t trust. That wasn’t why he was here now, swallowing down the taste of gin and orange peel and a hint of bitter _something_ that he knew would surely act faster than the strychnine had. He didn’t trust Le Chiffre, although he’d thought he could rely on the fact that he trusted the man’s self-interest. Le Chiffre was a rat of the first order, and would surely be at the front of the pack on a sinking ship. That’s what James had been sure of. That Le Chiffre needed Bond to keep the noose from tightening around his own neck.

Now, as he stood, there was nothing he could say to take the blame and pass it off to anyone else. When he caught that milky eyed stare he couldn’t be sure of Le Chiffre’s expression; was it satisfaction, confusion or just plain disinterest? _He thought he heard the croupier say something to him, but his racing mind was too focused to take it in._ His eyes swayed to the bar but no still Vesper. No Mathis. No one.

 _Quick_. Easy to fall back on the training because, as his heartbeat increased and the lights began to brighten, it was all he could think of.

Oversights cost lives. Only in his line of work that life tended to be your own.

 _Salt_. Grabbed from a table which he banged into hard as he veered through the crowded dinner hall. _The voices sounded loud but muffled._ Someone asked him if he was alright. _Maybe_ , _he couldn’t trust his senses_. His feet didn’t stop. His lips tingled and his eyes twitched.

Memories surged up like yesterdays food. ‘ _This is what cyanide poisoning feels like. The sooner you catch it, the sooner you flush it, the less chance you have of a fatality. I’d let you see more of the effects but if he doesn’t inhale the amyl nitrate now we’ll be down another candidate. Come on Bond, there’s a good chap, I know no one likes needles. You can hate me when you’re dead, but knowing the symptoms will save your life._ ’

 _Swallowing was difficult._ He thought his airways might be inflamed, but it could have just been the salt water gagging in his oesophagus. _One, two, three_ and everything came up in a confused swill of vomit and a taste of blood in his mouth. When he looked back up to the mirror, the white bathroom hurt his eyes.

 _His vision blurred_. He was hot. Pulling open his collar, losing the bow tie.

_Car. Call help. Now._

_Outside_. Cool air on sweat. Something hit him as he tried his best to cross to the parked Aston Martin. He couldn’t stop. If he stopped he was dead. _His heart jumped about inside his chest like a skipping record._ The darkness helped. The streaking of headlights and honking of horns did not. _Being nearly run over did not_.

Because getting past the fear was the easy part. Fighting the poison for control of your own body? That was the impossible part.

 _Fumbling with the door_. Blinking away the wave of nausea _._ The seat was soft and the smell in his nose was cloying, hideous. _What the fuck has that bastard done to me?_

It was the sort of moment, as the chip in his arm sent the distress signal and he put the earpiece in with shaking fingers, that he realised the truth of being your own worst enemy.

_As the voices in his ear talked over one another and spun round and around in his mind like snow in a snow globe._

“Could it be digitalis?”  
“There’s something wrong.”  
“What are we missing?”

_As the cool evening air and the bright traffic lights made the nausea in his gut dance and the pain across his skin spark._

It was a strange moment to feel fear, he thought. He couldn’t remember the last moment that he’d had the time to feel afraid of dying.

_As the thoughts that travelled through his brain, appearing like camera flashes leaving an after image on the retina._

_As he thought he heard someone telling him to open a blue syringe, definitely blue, he was sure, blue..._

_As his senses became muddled and confused and his body became aware of the agony._

That was when he felt the needle go in.


	9. Achates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get serious rather quickly, Le Chiffre speaks in riddles and is a truly reprehensible bastard. Just in case you were beginning to like him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly sorry for making you all wait so long for this chapter. I've had a lot going on and have had little time to write. I also lost my folder with all of my FF documents and so have been starting from scratch with my story threads and plot ideas. Not very helpful. I've even gone off track and opted for a title from the Odyssey rather than the Iliad, just to start afresh. Thank you all for being patient and geeing me on!  
> This chapter also goes back and forth between POV of characters, so I've put their names at the changes to show who's 'talking'.  
> Also updated warnings: dubious consent.

_Le Chiffre_

He remembered his first partner. Maybe too well, sometimes. Rufus. Tall, mousy, nervous but violent when pushed. Too much so, at times. Had grown up on a rich estate on Mikonos until his parents found out he was heading up a drug ring and decided to disinherit him after the trial fell through due to lack of evidence. Had the most irritating habit of swearing when he was nervous, and was perhaps his most memorable partner because Le Chiffre had sworn he’d never take another.

 _“Once for the thief, twice for the thief, Jean,”_ Rufus used to say to him whenever a deal went south, “ _three and it’s his bad day.”_    
  
Le Chiffre had liked him because he didn’t shy away from the truth. He wasn’t a criminal at heart, not truly. He was just spoiled and corrupt and bored. Le Chiffre managed the runners and the accounts, and Rufus had the contacts and the know-how. And they both enjoyed a decent brandy and a game of chess.  
  
It had been a sad day when he’d lost him. Not the worst. Just sad. But then Rufus wasn’t the brightest. He was just charming, and Le Chiffre liked to be charmed. It pleased him that someone made the effort. Selling out Rufus to the Russian mob boss they’d been operating through had been difficult. Not because he liked him, that only made it sad, no it was difficult because he realised he would never have this again. Never again have that safe, charmed feeling. A sort of camaraderie, he supposed. After all it was difficult to forgive when someone tried to have you killed so they could keep your half of the cut.   
  
“ _If only you’d been skimming_ ,” he remembered saying to Rufus as he stood, gripped between two Russian toadies while their boss lit a cigarette in his car, a warm glow on that cold night, “ _it would have been so much easier to forgive you_.”  
  
“ _Once for the thief, twice for the thief Jean,”_ Rufus had said, smiling through his fear even as it kept his eyes blank, “ _tick tock_.” 

Never again, he’d told himself. Le Chiffre wondered if he was ever going to take his own advice.

* * *

  
  
_James_  

Waking up was an oddity. Firstly for the fact that he hadn’t expected to wake up at all, and secondly because of the first thing his blurred vision exposed.

“Can you count these?”  
  
Fingers. He was sure they were fingers, being held irritatingly in front of his face. Considering the thing Bond felt like doing most was vomiting, he didn’t appreciate it. Lifting his arm was absurd; not that it was heavy, just that he felt he had little control over the muscles, sending it flying in the wrong direction when he attempted to bat the fingers away. A terse sigh was his reply.

Without his hand he fell back on old fashioned tactics.

“Get your fucking fingers out of my face.”

A sniff, and then the fingers disappeared, showing someone who didn’t seem entirely as pleased that he was not dead as James was himself. Le Chiffre sat in a wing backed chair with sickening cream upholstery. It took a little longer than usual but Bond recognised the layout and the decor from his reconnaissance; _a room somewhere in the hotel, probably one Le Chiffre had rented alongside his hilltop resort._

The man looked like a statue. With his pale skin contrasting to his dark wardrobe Bond thought he might belong in some gothic painting. A Carrivagio, lit by the light of a ragged candle upon a hard  worn table as two dogs tore each other apart. James thought Le Chiffre might look as uncaringly on that as he currently was upon James; cold eyes and a straight edged mouth which betrayed none of the emotion which he’d been unable to hide at the table.

He looked truly dead inside, a sharp contrast to the fire that seemed to burn in him whenever a challenge presented itself.

Which was the moment, staring at the man’s curved lips, that Bond truly seemed to appreciate that he was alive. _Alive, alive, alive._ A laugh burst from his throat and he gagged on it, coughing.

“Count them,” Le Chiffre said, ignoring the man’s antics and holding up the fingers once more, this time not as obnoxiously close.

“What did you give me?”

“How many fingers, Bond. Count them.”

“Three,” James decided that cooperation was perhaps a better tactic; the shock of near death wore off fast. He’d been through it often enough for it to lose its charm. Le Chiffre changed the fingers, “Two. Five.”

The fingers were thrust into his face once more and Bond reacted unconsciously. This time his hand did not waver and his muscles obeyed, whippet like. He snatched up Le Chiffre’s wrist in his grip, tight and grinding until the man winced and he let go. Sitting back Le Chiffre seemed to be mollified, even if he rubbed at his wrist tenderly. Bond thought he remembered a bruise there, _black and foreboding_ , but was in little mood to care.

“Good. That’s good. You’re regaining cognitive and motor functions faster than I would have anticipated.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Bond repeated as he struggled to sit up; as he did he realised he was lying upon a richly covered duvet on a king sized bed. Someone had removed his shoes.

“Which one?” Le Chiffre asked distractedly as he stood, making his way to a chair upon which a familiar jacket was draped.

“What did you give me?”

“What makes you think I gave you anything?”

“You want the list? We might be here a while.”

“You have enough enemies that I should surely not be your first suspect. Anyway, we do not have the time,” Le Chiffre picked up the jacket and roughly patted it down before handing it to Bond, who had shimmied to the edge of the bed, “you’re losing, quite badly I might add.”

“You won my hand?”

“I won your hand,” Le Chiffre rubbed at an itch on his jaw, “a shame you were not there to see it, it was rather spectacular.”

“Pity,” James said tightly, “but we’re steering away from the important point...”

Standing wasn’t as hard as he’d expected, and he felt relieved that whatever treatment he’d been given was working. _Had_ worked. Not only was he not dead, but he was able to leap up quickly enough to grab Le Chiffre by the front of his immaculate suit and slam him into the wall, almost lifting him from his feet. The surprised grunt and rough, desperate hands trying to dislodge him, weren’t much of a deterrent.

“What did you _give_ me?” Bond asked with a strict tone designed to intimidate through its seeming normalcy.

“A better question would be...” Le Chiffre hesitated as he attempted to struggle futilely; Bond had him flush against the wall, hip bone pressed into his pelvis and flattened forearms trapping any potential blow, “if I had wanted you dead why would I give you the antidote?”

“Antidote to what?”

“Venom. Funnel web spider venom.”

“Don’t fuck around, do you?” James said through gritted teeth.

“Is there a reason I should? I saved your life. I’m not in the habit of doing so just to kill someone after going to all that trouble.”

“I don’t know. Maybe you just don’t like the passiveness of poison. Maybe you like to watch the knife go in. How am I supposed to know what perverted shit you’re into?”

A laugh, soft and throaty, accompanied Le Chiffre’s unpleasant smile. Up close it was difficult to stay distanced from the man’s _unpleasantness_ , while also ignoring the attractive qualities that pulled at James’ navel. Hard planes of flesh against sharp bones against rough breath. It was easy to fall into accelerated arousal after waking from a brush with death.

“You wouldn’t want to get into the perverted shit I’m into,” Le Chiffre parroted through his smile, “I’m sure. Though if you refuse to take your hands form my person I could introduce you.”

Which was when he felt it. Later James would blame it on the disorientation and nausea which had come with the drug, but at the time he was able to be far more truthful with himself. The blade that pressed against his abdomen, _he knew it was a blade, double edged by the feel of the way it caught on the cotton as it moved back and forth_ , was something he should have known would be there.

 _Should have disarmed him before restraining him_ , he derided himself harshly. _Careless and foolish_ , James thought, _that’s what you’ve been since this started. Careless and fucking foolish._

“Shall we start with your hands? Put them against the wall, palms flat,” Le Chiffre instructed with the tone of a disappointed music instructor, irritated by his pupil’s lack of dextrousness; the blade twirled and James felt the tip press in against his shirt and nip at his skin, blinking, face passive. James still had him crowded in against the wall, against which Le Chiffre was now leaning casually. Strangely it still gave the pale man the advantage, as any close quarters movement would end in a knife to the gut. There just wasn’t enough wiggle room.

“So you do like to watch them squirm when they’re skewered, hmm?” James asked even as his mind raced for a way to escape, “Typical psychopath. You’re certainly disappointing.”

“As I should be in you, I suppose. Stay still, if you don’t want me to stain that expensive shirt.”

“There’s nothing worse than someone who refuses to kill you quickly.”

The feeling of a hand descending his shirt front while the knife played with his navel was a little confusing for the senses. James couldn’t stop the twitch at his brow and the dip in his gut as the hand continued down and roughly cupped the straining erection in his trousers.

 _Another tricky side effect of feeling so god damned alive_.

“I’m sure this would all be far easier if I’d just let them kill you,” Le Chiffre mused.

“You can tell me all about why you didn’t when you’re in prison.”

“Oh? I’d thought you’d like to hear it now?” Le Chiffre had leaned in to speak against James’ ear, his voice throaty when quiet, his sibilants soft and almost lisping; The regular kneading between his legs was making him a little unsteady. When he tried to move Le Chiffre let out a soft, “ _ah_ _ah_ ” and shook his head minutely while the knife pressed closer still, sliding into the folds between the buttons and allowing the cool, sharp tip to slip into the indent of his belly button.

“Planning on humiliating me before I die?” James asked with a hint of the true anger he kept specially for those that bested him due to his own recklessness.

“You do seem so very intent on dying,” Le Chiffre said curiously as he undid the button on James’ trousers and deftly slipped his hand into his underwear; skin on skin was so much more difficult to ignore.

It was reckless, but then when had that stopped him before. James twisted at the hips, shoving his right hip forwards and bringing his left hand to grab at the knife wielding hand, pulling it up as they struggled together. Le Chiffre grit his teeth and squeezed painfully with his other hand as James spun them in a shuffling of shoes and an inelegant grunt. James found himself squeezed up against the wall as they wrestled tightly for the knife. It ended up between them, caught in a battle of wills. Still the hand at his groin continued its work.

Another attractive laugh. It turned the hairs at the base of his neck to cactus spines.

“Not enjoying yourself? Seems like a lie, if your body is to be believed. And you could certainly best me, if you wished. It would simply cost you a little blood.”

Le Chiffre had long fingers. Long, slim, calloused fingers. It made James wonder, half heartedly, what a glorified banker could possibly do often enough to form calluses. The knife in his right hand seemed a good culprit. _Practice and practice_ , James thought, _and it makes perfect, unfortunately_. The rough skin at the sides of Le Chiffre's fingertips tickled along his cock while the slick palm caressed the head and the cool metal of the blade itched against his skin as they fought for dominance of the weapon.

“Not willing to spare it?” Le Chiffre asked as he grasped him more firmly, eliciting a half swallowed grunt.

“Maybe I’ve come close to death enough times for one night.”

“What a shame.”

A deft twist and a well placed fingernail and James voiced his surprise, swallowing the exclamation as quickly as it had graced the air. It was difficult to tell where the murderous need to shed a few pints in aid of beating Le Chiffre into a bloody pulp met the want to flip the man around and fuck him rough against the wall he was currently pressed against. James wondered if this was some sort of test. Perhaps one Le Chiffre himself wasn’t even aware of.

It was luck more than judgement that James managed to catch Le Chiffre off guard. Their shared grip of the blade between them allowed James to pull the knife to the right, knowing Le Chiffre would never relinquish it. It set the pale man off balance, allowing James to bring their joined hands around until he had Le Chiffre’s back flush against his front and James’ arm around his throat, elbow crooked.

Still the knife remained in both hands, straining.

The other hand did not relent. James felt the sweat beading against his shoulder blades, slicking together into the dip and running ticklish down his spine. The warm chuckle from full lips made his nerves itch. As much as the pulsing blood in his solid cock demanded one. The hand was skilled, but it was determined to keep him guessing. There was more at risk here than his libido, something of which James was always well aware.

Another thing he’d become used to juggling.

“Don’t do this often?” James asked, choking on the last word as Le Chiffre dragged a rough finger across his perineum.

“Often enough. Spread your legs.”

“I do anything for a man with a knife,” James complied facetiously.

“I see you’re a true survivor.”

“I could say the _nnh_ ,” James licked his lips and let out a pent up puff of air, “...the same of you.”

“And yet here you are,” Le Chiffre kicked out at James’ right leg, the agent’s wide stance allowing him to be pushed too far until he was forced to lean forward to regain balance. Le Chiffre thrust his hips back and pulled down on the knife, turning until the twist of their hands forced James to give up the knife or break a finger. Once more facing each other, knife back in its place at James’ naval, Le Chiffre continued, brown eyes intent as he continued his work.

“Thorn in my side. Putting yourself in the path of destruction for someone else’s whim. Playing dead is such a trite thing to pull off, no? Almost confrontational."

"Says the man who wants me dead."

"Did I say I wanted you dead? I say black, you say white," Le Chiffre said, making James frown, "It would be better if you could at least live up to your reputation.”

“I could show you my reputation,” James said darkly, blinking as the pleasure spiked, “I have a repertoire.”

“I did so look forward to seeing you crack,” Le Chiffre said, voice hot with lust.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Oh? Perhaps you shouldn’t ask that prematurely,” the teeth came out, “it’s one of my talents.”

Expecting things seemed to have become a bit of a minefield where Le Chiffre was concerned. James found he’d learned the hard way that the man was utterly unpredictable, perhaps mainly because he appeared to be an emotionally unstable psychopath. Still, when Le Chiffre dropped to his knees, took James’ straining erection between those full lips and drew him inside that hot, wet mouth it was difficult to do anything except say,

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” ground out quietly between gritted teeth, and fist a hand into that perfectly groomed hair to see the man almost defiled by the unkemptness of his form as he sucked him off with such finesse that James didn’t last more than a few rounds before he crushed him close and came in his mouth.

Nothing but panted breath and one loud but controlled gag from the man between his legs, which circled around James’ mind like a sparkler on a dark night, fizzing and crackling. He let his mind reboot as his spent cock was given over to the slight chill of the air on wet flesh. Le Chiffre stood as James put himself away, picking up his dropped knife with one hand while he wiped his lips with the back of the other. The switchblade was snapped closed and hidden inside the velvet folds of his jacket.

“Not much of a repertoire,” Le Chiffre said, sniffing.

“I find someone’s full potential is generally hampered by threat of blood loss,” Bond said wryly.

“Hmm,” Le Chiffre shrugged as he tried to slow his breathing, licking at his bottom lip, “Not everyone.”

“Not that it wasn’t nice,” James said glibly as Le Chiffre combed his hair back to its pristine condition with those _long, slim, calloused fingers_...James forced himself to look elsewhere, “but isn’t there a game to be getting back to?”

“I called for a half hour break. On account of your being dead.”

“You told them I was _dead_?”

“No. I said you’d had bad oysters for dinner.”

“How bourgeoisie. Maybe you could choke on a cocktail stick next and we could draw this tournament out until one of us really is a fucking corpse.”

“That sounds counter-intuitive,” Le Chiffre frowned despairingly, yet there was a hint of emptiness there that Bond couldn’t help but ponder, “honestly Bond you’d think no one had wanted you dead before.”

“No, it’s just been a while since the person who wanted me dead also wanted to fuck my brains out. Don’t worry,” he said with an acerbic, insincere smile, “I’ll adjust.”

“Good. Because the person that wanted you dead this time also wanted _me_ dead,” when James opened his mouth Le Chiffre interrupted with an abrupt and heated, “she’s been taken care of. Oh, and a word of advice?” Le Chiffre looked him in the eye, but from his angle all Bond could see was the milky white stare from between the scar, “give it ten minutes before you arrive. No need to give the vultures more meat to pick over.”

And with that Le Chiffre walked to the door, opened it just enough to pass through and then closed it behind him. James took a long breath through his nose and held it until it burned. When he let it out the room became quiet again.

James was beginning to wonder why it was always the people who couldn’t take advice that seemed so intent on giving it. He should know. He did it often.

He was thankful his phone was still in his pocket as Le Chiffre's words spiraled around in his head. He dialed Mathis, sniffing as he looked about for his shoes.

"It's me. I'm fine. Where the bloody hell were you? No, no it doesn't matter now. Look, I need you to do something for me. Dangerous?" James answered the question with a nod that the man on the other end of the phone could not see, "it'll be fine. Have you got a pen?"

* * *

_Le Chiffre_

She sat on the couch, with a glass of something fizzing in her left hand, as if she were waiting for the world to end. Her eyes were glassy and yet she was not crying. He mouth smiled and yet she did not seem happy. Truthfully, if he looked close enough, he knew she simply no longer cared.

When he entered she looked up, catching his eye, and smiled. Then laughed.

“Dolbo yeb,” she laughed through her words, eyes creased and voice drawling, “vy cyka blyat.”

The room would have been a place for an argument, were it not so crowded. Kratt was right inside the doorway when he entered, closing the door behind him diligently. Flanking Valenka’s couch stood two of the men he’d hired since he’d arrived, brusque Czechs that Vint had recommended, and behind them a couple of his crew from the ship that was currently docked under the watchful eye of Herr Mendel. Lounging against the dresser on the right hand wall was Vint, his hulking form seeming bored if his expression was anything to go by, hunched over as he held a short, wide dagger between his hands which he was entertaining himself by flipping, over and over.

It would have been a room for an argument, if it wasn’t already a room prepped for an execution.

When he approached and reached out to take the glass from her she snarled and threw the contents against his shirt, soaking the material in a startling shock of chill. He tried to blame the surprise, but he knew what it was that made him draw up his arm and backhand her sharply across the face. She fell from her perch with an ugly sound of pain, landing on the ground in an awkward display of limbs.

He thought she might have been drunk already. He thought that as the stinging in his hand abated and he stared at her, his fingers shaking as the skin on her perfect, pale face reddened from the blow. He thought that even as he knew what it was that made his stomach turn.

 _I need you_ , he wanted to scream at her, _don’t you know that I fucking need you? I need you, you stupid bitch, I need you, I need you, I needed you to..._

This time her laugh was tinged with a sob.

“I told you,” he said, lip twitching, “insult me in English if you wish to insult me at all.”

“Oh,” she said as she continued to lie on the ground, her dress dishevelled and revealing her long legs, almost showing her underwear; her voice was high pitched and tearful, as if a small child was speaking from somewhere deep inside of her, “so all your little friends can hear what you are? Is that it?”

“Get her up,” he gestured with a sharp nod to the men by the couch; they hauled her up as if she were a ragdoll, held together with nothing but string.

“What?” she said dramatically, laughing as she pulled at her jailors, “Are you going to punish me? Going to beat me?”

“You don’t understand what it is that you tried to do tonight, do you?” he said levelly as he wiped at his soaked shirt with a towel one of his subordinates had handed him, “There are a lot of people relying on this game to go one way, and one way only. You don’t understand because your world is so very narrow. Somehow I’ve become responsible for that.”

“He deserves to die, the arrogant pig. And so do you. We all do! Look at us, what are we? Just hate and stupidity, that’s all we are, waiting to get caught or killed and running all the time like rats. And now you’re a fucking whore rat!” she laughed loudly, once, “A big whore rat!”

“Valenka...” he said, warningly.

_Don’t you know what you are? Don’t you know I love you? Even if you hate me I need to love you._

“Going to fucking beat me?” she said again, half shouting, grinning, “Like I care. Like I care what you do to me, or yourself. What you do to us. Such a fucking, stupid whore aren’t you.”

“Takes one to know one, I’m sure,” he said with a caustic smile as Vint walked to his side slowly like a lumbering troll.

 _To think you would have killed us both out of what? Jealousy? Mistrust? Boredom? No trust, you have no trust in me and now...now I cannot trust you._ The memory of the pain that blossomed at the thought of losing her; as he fought with Obano for Valenka’s life because the thing she represented was too precious for him to have it stolen away. It seemed years had passed since that moment, not hours.

“You’ve been fucking, haven’t you,” she smiled from behind a fall of hair, her eye sharp and lethal and her words slow, almost teasing, “you’ve got a mouth for sucking cock. You fucking stupid cocksucker. You get on your knees for them and let them fuck you, don’t you, because you’re so fucking scared that you forget who it is that got you where you are! I poisoned him like you poisoned me, and I don’t fucking care why anymore!”

_Mother, I’ll take you away from all this._

The punch broke her jaw. He knew because he’d broken a man’s jaw in Lithuania in a gang fight once and it made that same loose, snapping noise, had that same give to it. The wail she let free was too loud. The two men at her sides held her tight and shook her to silence even as she tried to slump, tears pouring from her eyes which, for the first time, showed the fear she’d been covering with bravado.

_Mother..._

He walked closer, hunching down to her level as he leaned in close as she sobbed, saliva slipping from the edge of her mouth, mixed with blood.

“I’m not here to argue with you,” he said quietly, leaning in further to whisper just for her beneath the painful, grating whine she was keening out, “I am here, I have _always_ been here, to keep us alive. Keep us both alive. You petty, jealous creature,” he held her close with one hand at the base of her neck, “I admired that. So strong, aren’t you my darling. So strong and so clever, after everything you survived. We are so alike; I think I loved you for it. If only you hadn’t become so very greedy.”

He leaned back and stared at her, sniffing.

_Please don’t cry mother. I promise, it will be better tomorrow._

“Get her out of my sight,” he said dispassionately to Kratt, who had appeared at his right side.

“Permanently, Le Chiffre?” he was asked.

“Permanently.”

* * *

 

“Am I supposed to take you at your word?”

White was difficult enough to deal with at the best of times. Now, as he rode down in the elevator, letting out a sound of irritation as he rubbed at his reddened knuckles, Le Chiffre was in no mood.

“You can take my words for what they are,” he said in reply, “and know that I haven’t crossed you yet. I would have thought that was enough to show I’m not suicidal enough to do so.”

“You’ve played with our assets.”

“And I always provide a well earned return. With or without provocation.”

“Then I suppose that justifies your interest in the MI6’s safety. This had better not fail, Chiffre, or you are surely well aware of the consequences.”

“Overly,” Le Chiffre said, unable to stop the twitch at his left eye.

A soft laugh and White cut off the call before Le Chiffre could say any more. Ask the question he’d truly wanted to ask because it bit at him, ate at him. _Did you ask her to betray me?_

In the end it didn’t matter. That’s what he told himself. It didn’t matter. What mattered was survival.

 _At the end of this convoluted game_ , he told himself as he pocketed his phone and stared at his face in the mirrored elevator, _it was all that truly mattered_.

He just wished he was as good at lying to himself as he was to others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valenka's Russian insult:
> 
> 'Dolbo yeb, vy cyka blya" - "Fucking idiot, you stupid fucking whore."
> 
> I think it was vindicated, really.


End file.
